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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23428765">Summer Vacation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucasdias960/pseuds/lucasdias960'>lucasdias960</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>House M.D.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, M/M, Power Play, Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:35:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23428765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucasdias960/pseuds/lucasdias960</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What House and Chase did for summer vacation. Except without the vacation part.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robert Chase/Greg House</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>September 2005</p>
<p>The wind was picking up speed, and Chase huddled deeper in his leather jacket and stared at the door, trying to convince himself to do... something. Knock. Walk away. Go inside or go home.</p>
<p>Neither option was looking particularly attractive at the moment.</p>
<p>He raised his fist and it hovered in front of his face for a few moments, just as uncertain as the rest of him. He was just about to lower it, to turn and walk away, when the door swung open to the accompaniment of a long-suffering sigh.</p>
<p>"I can't lurk behind the door all night, you know," House snapped. "Legs aren't what they used to be." He paused. "Well, not the one, anyway."</p>
<p>Chase suppressed a sigh of his own and studied the man in front of him-- tall, lanky, and all sharp edges, none blunted in the least by the cane on which he leaned. House's stare was annoyed and frankly shameless, despite the fact that he'd as much as admitted to waiting around for Chase's arrival. He had a fierce, peculiar pride, but after two years now Chase was no closer to determining its limits, to mapping its rocky territory; he never knew what would irritate House and what would simply amuse him, and not knowing kept him unsettled and off-balance.</p>
<p>Chase hated not knowing things.</p>
<p>House's brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth for what would no doubt be a cutting, caustic remark. Chase forestalled him by pushing past him into the house, giving only a cursory glance to his surroundings. It wasn't the first time he'd been there. The last time hadn't been the first time either.</p>
<p>He still remembered the first time, with the embarrassing clarity of a year one crush. Some file or other that House had needed from the hospital, one night when he'd already gone home and Chase had been staying late-- back before Cameron even, back when Chase was the wide-eyed ingénue (and just as love-struck, a suspiciously House-like voice whispered in the back of his head) and the other two were the old hands, jaded and defensive in their loyalty to their half-cocked boss. He'd stood in the doorway, peering at the furnishings beyond, the piano and the paintings and the overstuffed easy chair, as House snatched the file from the grasp and paged through it, muttering, without a single word of acknowledgment. What is it, Chase had asked, curious and eager, and House had waved a dismissive hand at him and said, Probably nothing, and then slammed the door in his face.</p>
<p>Chase had thought he'd hated House, back then. Somewhere along the line, hate had transmuted into respect. House had that effect on people.</p>
<p>Now he wondered sometimes if it had ever been hate at all.</p>
<p>Other times, he was pretty sure it still was.</p>
<p>He waited until House had closed the door (behind him, this time, and not in his face for a change) and limped back to the sitting room, where he rescued a half-full shot glass from its ring of moisture on the coffee table. Then Chase folded his arms over his chest and demanded, "What the hell was that about?"</p>
<p>House blinked at him, lazy and unconcerned. Like a hawk, Chase's mind supplied, and he wondered if he was losing it.</p>
<p>"Well?" Chase snapped.</p>
<p>House held up a pre-emptive finger. "I'm trying to remember what I've done to piss you off lately. The list is getting kind of long."</p>
<p>Chase gritted his teeth. "Perhaps I should jog your memory. Me, prison, dozens of inmates whistling at my arse? Ringing any bells?"</p>
<p>House brightened. "Really? I hope you got videotape."</p>
<p>"I didn't get anything," Chase snapped, "and you know it. You knew I wouldn't."</p>
<p>"I knew no such thing," House said mildly. "Are you suggesting we be any less than thorough in this case?"</p>
<p>"I'm suggesting you just like to see me suffer!"</p>
<p>"I've never denied that." House drained the last of his drink in one long swallow, and Chase forced his eyes not to follow the movement of the muscle, the bob of the Adam's apple in the long throat. Then House glanced at the empty shot glass, seemingly at a loss for what to do with it, and handed it to Chase.</p>
<p>Chase took it without a word and stalked into the kitchen, seething. He dropped it in the sink and ran hot water in the glass. Then he slumped forward and braced himself against the counter, watching the water swirl and overflow from the glass into the sink.</p>
<p>From the hallway, House said, "My keen deductive skills are telling me that's not the only thing chapping your ass."</p>
<p>"What do you care," Chase said tonelessly, still staring at the sink.</p>
<p>"Well, there's my water bill, for one thing." He heard the familiar step, step-click of House's gait, and then an arm reached around him and shut off the tap. "Besides, I like your ass. I prefer it unchapped."</p>
<p>Chase's hands tightened on the counter. "I thought I was done with this hazing shit."</p>
<p>"Hazing?" He could hear House's eyebrows shoot up. "I haven't even broken out the Saran wrap yet."</p>
<p>"You know what I mean!" Chase spun around. House was leaning against the refrigerator, seemingly unconcerned. "You're treating me like-- God, you're treating me like you used to treat Foreman!"</p>
<p>"And you think you're better than Foreman? Think you deserve better?"</p>
<p>The question was mild, unassuming. Chase hesitated, caught off-guard, uncertain of the angle. "In what way?" he asked finally, when no further information was forthcoming.</p>
<p>"Oh, excellent," House said, with a vicious, gleeful grin. "Splendid answer as usual, Dr. Chase. Not a blanket denial, suggesting you do think you're better than him, at least in some respects. Care to elucidate?"</p>
<p>A test, then. Chase set his jaw and didn't answer.</p>
<p>House moved closer and dropped his voice. "Could it be because he's unethical enough to try and screw his way back into his boss's good graces, while you remain virtuous and pure?" Then he frowned in a look of exaggerated concentration. "No, that's not quite right. Did I get something backwards?"</p>
<p>"I'm unethical?" Chase couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice even if he'd tried.</p>
<p>"Fun, isn't it?" House's eyes gleamed. "We could start a club. Maybe have a secret handshake. Matching ties."</p>
<p>"Are you suggesting I was ever in your good graces in the first place?"</p>
<p>"That would be one of the subtexts." This time, his eyes flashed with something not unlike contempt, leaving no doubt that if Chase ever had been in those mythical, inconceivable good graces, he certainly wasn't now.</p>
<p>He felt his spine stiffen, and he took a belated step back. His voice felt like ice in his throat, his mouth, sliding over his tongue, cool and slick. "If you don't want me here--"</p>
<p>"If I didn't want you here," House interrupted, with quiet, deadly accuracy, "you wouldn't be here. Don't think I'm the type to suffer in stoic silence. I can safely say that I've never tucked a fox cub in my chainmail, and frankly I can't see the attraction. I, unlike some people, am capable of learning from history." He paused. "Benedict."</p>
<p>Chase rolled his eyes at that, but House wasn't done. "And if you don't want to be here, I certainly hope you'd have the balls to actually say as much."</p>
<p>Chase scoffed. "Sure, and face further humiliation and ridicule at work. I prefer to suffer in private, if need be."</p>
<p>He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, and House didn't disappoint. Eyebrows arched to dangerous heights over pale blue eyes, and House purred, "Why, Dr. Chase, your private life is coming into disturbingly sharp focus."</p>
<p>No words were forthcoming. Chase could only scoff again.</p>
<p>"Is that what you think this is?" House's voice had lost its mocking edge, but Chase wasn't fooled; the razor was still there, just better hidden. "Some kind of trade-off?"</p>
<p>Chase's fists clenched. He forced himself to speak evenly. "What would you call it?"</p>
<p>House's eyes darkened and his hand tensed on his cane, the knuckles standing out in sharp relief. For a moment, Chase was afraid he'd gone too far, that House would actually hit him. Never mind that he'd never once seen the man driven to violence, or that he didn't even know what he'd said that was so provocative; just for that instant, the threat was there.</p>
<p>Then his grip on the cane relaxed, and Chase felt his back unclench in something like relief.</p>
<p>"I'd call it quits," House said flatly. "Since you asked."</p>
<p>It took Chase a few moments to realize what he was saying, that he was answering Chase's question. Then he just stared at House, open-mouthed and not caring how he must look.</p>
<p>He felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach, and he didn't even know why. This was what he'd wanted, after all.</p>
<p>Most days, anyway.</p>
<p>With one last, disdainful look, House turned and started to shuffle towards the sofa. "Stop gaping and get out," he said over his shoulder. "You have work tomorrow, remember?"</p>
<p>Chase snapped his mouth shut and turned to go.</p>
<p>He hesitated at the door, wanting to say something-- anything-- to make amends of some kind, to make the parting an amicable one. To quiet the panic that was beginning to clamor in the back of his brain. He still had to work with the man. Work under him....</p>
<p>He left without saying a word, closing the door behind him with a dull thud of finality.</p>
<p>Maybe he didn't have any balls after all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As it turned out, his worst fears were in vain. House was scrupulously, unfailingly polite the next day, even greeting him as "Dr. Chase" when he walked in. After about fifteen minutes, during which the novelty was a refreshing change of pace, it started to set Chase's teeth on edge.</p>
<p>He wasn't the only one to notice, of course; that would have been too much to hope for. He managed to avoid the others until lunch, when Foreman and Cameron, apparently united in their common pursuit of information, cornered him in the cafeteria.</p>
<p>"What the hell is going on?" Foreman asked bluntly, as Chase froze with a paper packet half-opened in his hand, caught in the act of sugaring his fifth coffee of the day.</p>
<p>He forced his voice and his fingers to steady, and was gratified when he managed to tip the sugar into the coffee with nary a tremor. "In general, or are you referring to something specific?"</p>
<p>"He means with House," Cameron explained.</p>
<p>Chase cast her a narrow look; he supposed someone had to play exposition jockey. "Nothing," he said, schooling his voice to a surprised tone-- Why would you even ask? He kept his head down as he stirred his coffee, less confident of his control over his expression, and breathed in the steam, struck by the irrational fear that if he looked at her, she'd know. That House was a disease, and the sufferers could all too well identify the symptoms in others.</p>
<p>"Seriously, man," Foreman said, leaning across the table. Foreman was safe; Foreman had never fallen for House. Chase flicked him a brief, dismissive look, but Foreman was undeterred. "What have you got on him?"</p>
<p>"What makes you think I have anything?" Chase countered, even as the idea settled uneasily in his gut. Blackmail? He could certainly blackmail House if he wanted, or at least he could try. He had the ammunition. But would House play along? Chase doubted it.</p>
<p>In fact, he was sure House wouldn't. He'd call Chase's bluff, and then Chase would either have to drop it, or go on record claiming his boss had sexually harassed him. Even if he went through with it, House would probably lose his job, and then what would be the point? He'd come to PPTH to work with a certified, if certifiable, genius, not to get him fired.</p>
<p>Not like he hadn't done his best to do that anyway.</p>
<p>Besides, whatever hoops House intended to make him jump through to get back into those supposed good graces, he was pretty sure blackmail wasn't one of them.</p>
<p>"Chase?" Cameron prodded, and he forgot himself and looked up, realizing he'd missed something while lost in thought. Their eyes locked, and his gaze automatically cut to the side, his own words ringing in his ears-- He's so old-- and Cameron's rejoinder-- And you're so young.</p>
<p>It was all Cameron's fault, damn it. He never would have thought... if she didn't....</p>
<p>"I said he was being nice to you." Cameron's voice dripped annoyance and disbelief. Hearing it, recognizing it, Chase couldn't stop the brief swirl of smugness that rippled through him. Not so special now, are we, Princess?</p>
<p>Then he allowed himself a scoff. "Please. He's not being nice, he's being fake-nice. There's a difference."</p>
<p>Foreman folded his arms on the table. "With House, I'll take what I can get."</p>
<p>Chase shrugged, wishing it didn't feel quite so obvious that he was lying through his shiny white teeth. He picked up the coffee and sipped, then made a face; too much sugar. "Sorry," he said, pushing the cup away. "I don't know what to tell you. I don't have anything."</p>
<p>"Something's going on," Cameron said. Her blue-gray eyes were sharp and speculative, and Chase quickly dropped his gaze again.</p>
<p>"Why?" he asked his tuna sandwich. "You think House shouldn't be nice to me?"</p>
<p>"I wouldn't," Foreman said with a snort.</p>
<p>Chase rolled his eyes. Foreman's needling about, and obvious resentment of, his supposed betrayal (forget the supposed, Robbie boy, betrayal all the way) was getting old, and no less annoying for it. "Well, thank Christ I don't work for you, then."</p>
<p>"It's just... unusual," Cameron said, placating, shooting Foreman a quelling glare. Foreman just gave her a who, me? look, utterly guiltless.</p>
<p>"House is unusual," Chase muttered, poking at the sandwich he suddenly very much did not want to eat. "Get used to it." He raised it to his mouth with resignation; his stomach was empty, and knotting from the barrage of caffeine.</p>
<p>"Are you fucking him?"</p>
<p>Chase sprayed a mouthful of tuna sandwich across the table.</p>
<p>"Jesus!" Foreman grabbed a handful of napkins and scrubbed fruitlessly at his tie, before tossing them down in annoyance. "Timing, Cameron, look it up."</p>
<p>"Sorry," Cameron muttered. "I was--"</p>
<p>"--being House, yeah. Give it up, Cameron. You need about 20 years and a limp to pull that off."</p>
<p>Chase sputtered quietly and downed mouthfuls of too-sweet coffee, grateful to have their attention off him, if only for the moment. With any luck, they'd take his response for the simple sheer disbelief the question should have commanded.</p>
<p>Would have, if he hadn't gotten in so far over his head he could barely see the surface anymore.</p>
<p>He stole one of Foreman's napkins and wiped his mouth, and was contemplating another bite of the ill-fated sandwich when Cameron shot him a suspicious look. "You're not, are you?"</p>
<p>Chase pushed the sandwich away and sighed. "Yes, Cameron, I am sleeping with House. Obviously. Satisfied?"</p>
<p>Blind 'em with a lie so blatantly improbable, and they'll never know it's the truth. The voice still sounded like House.</p>
<p>She huffed and stood. "Fine. Don't tell us." She paused. "You know, I liked you a lot better before."</p>
<p>"Sorry to disappoint," Chase retorted, even as he wondered Before what? and How much better?</p>
<p>Foreman stood too, with obvious reluctance. "Something's going on, and I'm gonna find out what."</p>
<p>Chase wasn't sure if it was meant as a threat, or if it just sounded like one.</p>
<p>He sat there for a long time after they left, sipping the syrupy coffee and grimacing. The rest of his sandwich went into the trash can, untouched.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>May 2005</p>
<p>He couldn't even remember how it began, not really. Not with the same startling clarity he recalled that first night at House's door. What he did remember came in snippets, as all the best memories did-- highlights only, skipping the dull moments in between. Though privately Chase doubted House had ever had a dull moment in his life.</p>
<p>He remembered walking past House's office on his way to the elevator, at the end of the long, long day when House had, with his usual cocktail of staggering genius, sheer audacity, and insanely good luck, diagnosed Mark Warner with AIP. He remembered pausing at the glass door and looking in, a private daily ritual that was, he knew, light-years ahead of anything Cameron could dream up in the pathos sweepstakes. He remembered getting his feet moving again, hurrying on before House saw him and the game was well and truly rumbled.</p>
<p>He didn't know what he saw then that gave him pause, and he didn't remember stopping in front of the elevator and making the conscious decision to go back; but he must have seen the former and done the latter, because the next thing he knew, he was watching House again.</p>
<p>The man was leaning back in his desk chair, eyes closed, head bobbing to a rhythm only he could hear. Chase looked for earphones but didn't see any; internal soundtrack, then. He shuddered to think. Funeral marches, maybe. Or perhaps the best of ABBA.</p>
<p>And then House looked up and saw him.</p>
<p>Chase froze, feeling like a voyeur, feeling 14 again, wank mag clutched desperately in one hand and dick likewise in the other, and his mum standing red-faced and flustered in the doorway. If only House had a glass of G&amp;T by his side, the illusion would be complete; alas, the shot glass next to him held the last dregs of some dark liquid that was most definitely not gin.</p>
<p>That, and Chase's mum had never quite had that expression on her face. Calculating, speculative... amused?</p>
<p>House saw him. House wasn't supposed to see him. He never had before; that was how it worked. Bright boy that he was, it hadn't taken Chase long to figure out that five p.m. was House's own personal Happy Fun Time, featuring Special Guest, answers to the name of Heavy Narcotic. Every afternoon at quitting time, House retreated to his office, if he wasn't there already, and popped what (Chase vaguely remembered) some American comic would have referred to as a heroic dose of Vicodin, uncaring whether or not his subordinates had left already; and every afternoon, Chase, who more and more often fell into the "not" category, stopped on his way past and watched through the glass. Just for a few seconds, never before long enough to get caught. In some strange sense it seemed the safest way to interact with House-- with the man trapped behind glass, no longer a danger to society, at least for the time being.</p>
<p>Chase didn't know why he stopped, at first. Told himself he was watching genius at work, deliberately ignoring the fact that said genius was currently floating amidst a drug-addled haze. Later-- he's so old; and you're so young-- he started playing a game with himself, watching House's hands and body, the restless, twitching fingers and the stiffly-held leg and the cane-hunched shoulders, trying to see what Cameron saw.</p>
<p>That day, for a brief, heart-stopping instant, he saw it. And damn his eyes, House caught him looking.</p>
<p>Even from the hallway, Chase could see House was feeling no pain. His eyes were black, bottomless pits, and the lines around his mouth were relaxed ever-so-slightly. Not necessarily a good thing; Manic House was almost as trying to deal with as Snappish House. He fixed Chase with that dark, fathomless gaze, pinning him to the spot like a butterfly, and Chase's mouth went dry.</p>
<p>House probably started dissecting butterflies at the tender age of three.</p>
<p>Just as Chase's skin was making a credible attempt to crawl off his body and scurry down the hall to safety, House raised one hand in a lazy gesture that somehow managed to combine Come in, Shut the damn door behind you, and This had better be damn good all in one negligent flick of the wrist.</p>
<p>Chase swallowed. Before he could think better of it, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.</p>
<p>He remembered opening his mouth, and being surprised at the words that emerged.</p>
<p>"I hate this," he said with feeling, without preamble. "I don't want things to be like this."</p>
<p>House gave him a long, slow, head-to-toe look. A You interrupted Happy Fun Time for this? kind of look.</p>
<p>Chase's mouth tasted like ashes. "Forget it," he mumbled, and turned to escape. Maybe he'd make it all the way out of the building this time.</p>
<p>House's mild voice arrested him halfway to the door. "Somehow I don't think you're referring to my feng shui."</p>
<p>Great. Worse than Manic House; it was Reasonable House-- calm, collected, and dripping with contempt. Reasonable House reminded Chase far too much of his father for comfort. Especially given the highly disturbing turn his thoughts had taken of late.</p>
<p>He hadn't so much as kissed another man since seminary school. What the hell had possessed him to play the Cameron game?</p>
<p>Chase looked longingly at the hallway beyond the glass door, then turned back around with a sigh. "Look, I'm sorry about Vogler, I really am, but--"</p>
<p>House cut him off with a loud, rude buzzer sound, and for a moment Chase wondered if he was hearing things. "Nice try, but no cigar, big boy. You never use the word 'but' in an apology. Makes a butt out of 'apol' and 'gee willikers, I didn't mean to be such a naughty, naughty boy.'"</p>
<p>So Manic House was putting in an appearance after all. Chase rolled his eyes. "Do I even need to be here for this? Sounds like you've got things quite well enough in hand."</p>
<p>A disturbing gleam flashed in House's eyes, but all he said was, "Hey, you barged in on me, bucko. Besides, you might learn something." He grabbed his cane and started to rise, never breaking Chase's gaze. "Like the fact that I hate apologies."</p>
<p>Chase licked his lips and didn't say anything. He knew that already. He hadn't come in here to apologize.</p>
<p>He didn't think.</p>
<p>House heaved a long, put-upon sigh. "I'm not mad at you for going to Vogler, you moron. You did what you had to do to keep your job." He paused. "It's kind of flattering, actually, in a spite-your-face sort of way. You like working with me so much you're willing to tell little rat-tales on me out of turn. I knew you were into torture," he added with a leer.</p>
<p>Somehow Chase managed not to completely lose his shit at the obscene look on his boss's face. He squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and demanded, "What, then?"</p>
<p>Thankfully, House didn't pretend not to understand the question. He leaned over his desk, planting his fists deliberately on the scattered stacks of paper, and Chase cleared his throat and looked away.</p>
<p>"I'm mad at you," House said softly, "for being such a raging, unrelenting prick about it."</p>
<p>Chase swallowed again, a dozen missed opportunities flitting through his brain. How can I work with you, House had asked, deadly serious and even-- shock of shocks-- a little hurt; You have to, Chase had retorted, blithely assured of his place at the feet of the upper echelon, and walked away.</p>
<p>He nearly winced now at the memory. He might as well have been sucking Vogler's cock, for all the dignity it had left him. He felt unclean just thinking about it.</p>
<p>House's voice was low and menacing. "So tell me, Dr. Chase, how are you supposed to work with me now?"</p>
<p>Chase swallowed for the third time in as many minutes. He tasted ashes again, and wondered if it was the taste of bridges burning. If he lost his job now, like this, after everything he had done for it....</p>
<p>"Did you think maybe you'd bat your eyelashes and wiggle your ass, and all would be forgiven? I'll have you know I carry a wicked grudge. Just ask my psychiatrist."</p>
<p>"You have a psychiatrist?" Chase asked, momentarily diverted.</p>
<p>"Not anymore," House growled.</p>
<p>And. Shit.</p>
<p>That growl did things to him.</p>
<p>It was all Cameron's fault, for putting these ideas into his head. He'd have to make her suffer. He was smart; she wore low-cut tops; he'd find a way.</p>
<p>Suddenly, pathetically, he wanted nothing more in the world than for House to like him. To prostrate himself across the desk and beg for forgiveness.</p>
<p>But Chase had his own pride, far more conventionally defined than that of the eminent Dr. House, and he didn't beg. He just clenched his fists at his sides, took a deep breath, and said something inane, something he couldn't even remember now.</p>
<p>That was where his recollection started to get spotty. Logically, Chase knew he must have moved to the other side of the desk at some point, must have shown some telltale sign of arousal, a half-open mouth or a quickened breath, some rising pulse or animal scent. He didn't think it was the obvious; his slacks were loose enough, thank God, to hide all but the most persistent, diamond-cutting hard-on, and he wasn't into humiliation that much. But House was a diagnostician. He didn't need the obvious.</p>
<p>Chase didn't know how, but it must have happened, because the next thing he remembered clearly was standing with his face inches from House's, close enough to feel the eddy of air when House inhaled sharply and asked with what seemed like genuine bemusement, "Is there something in the water?"</p>
<p>Chase jerked as though he'd been slapped and took a hasty step back. His face felt hot and cold all at once. It was, he thought dizzily, like waking from a bad dream, only to find the monster had followed him home and was hiding under the bed. Or, more appropriately, in the closet.</p>
<p>Ha ha.</p>
<p>House was watching him avidly, a bright, hot gleam in his eyes that Chase suspected was only partly drug-fueled. For House, it seemed, the opportunity to mock his subordinates was better than any narcotic. "Is that really how good Catholic boys do penance? I heard the stories, of course, but I didn't dare dream--"</p>
<p>"Please," Chase groaned into his hands, which were helpfully covering his face; he couldn't recall moving them, but he was glad they were there. "Please, just drop it."</p>
<p>Denial wasn't even an option. Whatever House had seen to convince him, his instinct was not about to be dissuaded. It took more than self-serving denials to convince Gregory "Yes, everybody lies, we get it already" House.</p>
<p>"Not really that surprising," House mused, seemingly to himself, ignoring his pleas. "Obviously you're looking for a replacement daddy figure, someone to keep you in line. I should warn you, spanking's never really been my thing, but for you, hot stuff, I'll make an exception."</p>
<p>This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. Chase would wake up any minute now, and be safe at home in bed.</p>
<p>And then take a very long, very cold shower.</p>
<p>Experimentally, he peeked through his fingers. House batted his eyelashes.</p>
<p>House. Batted. His eyelashes.</p>
<p>"I've noticed," Chase said slowly, still half-stunned and hardly believing the words were coming out of his mouth, "that you talk about my arse a lot. Or my mouth. Or various other body parts."</p>
<p>"I'm warning you," House said, "you tell Cuddy I'm creating a hostile working environment, and she'll laugh you out on your arse." Then he opened his mouth in a faux-surprised O and clapped a hand to his cheek. "Oh my, there I go again."</p>
<p>Chase stared at House with fervent dislike. That this man, the man he'd pulled so many strings to work with, for whom he'd swallowed his hard-won pride and asked his father to make a phone call, was the same man who took such pleasure in making his life miserable, with no more personal regard for him than a little kid for the ants under his magnifying glass-- the irony stuck in his throat like a half-chewed lump of steak. A dangerous prickle of defiance shivered down his spine.</p>
<p>Without conscious thought-- because he wasn't stupid, one instant of conscious thought and he'd never have gone through with it-- Chase sank to his knees, at House's feet, behind House's desk.</p>
<p>"You think this is penance?" he said acidly. "Fine. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."</p>
<p>He expected another caustic comment, something to the effect of just how many times he'd fallen to his knees in front of a priest. In no way did he anticipate House's quick intake of breath, or the way every muscle in his body tensed.</p>
<p>It didn't take House long to find his voice; Chase suspected it never wandered far from home. "That," he said, with a definite note of approval to his words, "has to be the kinkiest thing I've ever seen in three dimensions."</p>
<p>Chase didn't remember getting on the elevator, or following House home in his car, with too-late panic racing through his veins like a drug. He didn't remember the walk to the front door, or how they got to the bedroom. He didn't even remember getting up off his knees.</p>
<p>He did remember sucking cock for the first time since seminary-- not the story House always wanted to hear, no licentious priests or roving gangs of older boys preying on the younger students; but rather Chase's last disastrous night at school, the night when everything he'd held together for so long had simply fallen apart and he knew he never wanted to set foot in another church ever again. He got blindingly, dangerously drunk, sucked some stranger's dick in the back room of a sleazy Sydney bar, and got an extremely ill-advised tattoo on his arse. His mother was dead, and he had years of suppressed teenage rebellion to pack into a few short hours before he had to start being responsible again.</p>
<p>He wondered if it was a coincidence that desperation and cocksucking always seemed to go hand-in-hand for him.</p>
<p>Afterwards, House jerked him off, long piano-trained fingers deftly hitting every one of his buttons, then made him sleep in the wet spot.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The panic set in sometime after midnight. Chase woke up and blinked sleepily at the ceiling, and once it hit, he fully intended to run for the door.</p>
<p>If only he wasn't so comfortable, and so damn tired. The wet spot wasn't even that wet anymore.</p>
<p>He rolled over and immediately passed out again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Good morning, Stupid Mistake #347," was the first thing Chase heard the next morning. "Want some eggs?"</p>
<p>Chase froze, his pulse racing and his eyes squeezed desperately shut.</p>
<p>"I make a mean omelet," House continued. "Only the best for my favorite piece of litigation. Coffee or tea?"</p>
<p>"Coffee," Chase mumbled into the pillow, still praying for oblivion.</p>
<p>House gave a huff of disapproval. "I thought all you Brits drank tea."</p>
<p>Chase didn't even bother to correct him. He just waited until the sound of House's shuffling gait faded into the distance, then shot off the bed and as far away from it as possible.</p>
<p>He paced for a few moments, trying to gather his scattered thoughts, then froze again when he realized that he was stark naked and House could come back at any minute. His briefs were-- his face flamed in recollection-- crumpled in the doorway of the bathroom, and his trousers lay draped over a burgundy-upholstered armchair. He'd just struggled into them and was doing up the fly when House reappeared in the bedroom door with an unreadable expression on his face, holding a steaming mug of coffee.</p>
<p>"So," he said, and cleared his throat. "We should probably talk."</p>
<p>"Probably," Chase agreed, wishing he had the nerve to reach past House for his shirt, which was-- a wince, this time-- hanging on the doorknob. Instead, he sank down in the chair and folded his arms over his chest.</p>
<p>House limped across the room and handed him the mug. Chase accepted it warily, wondering if the House family tree featured any Greeks in its lineage.</p>
<p>"Obviously," House said, retreating to the door in an uncharacteristic display of tact, "you mistook me for your priest and I mistook you for Carmen Electra. Easy mistake. Won't happen again."</p>
<p>Chase set down the coffee on a side table and stood again, reaching for his shirt and conscious of the way House's eyes followed the movements of his torso as he did so. He shrugged it on and started doing up the buttons with what he knew was misplaced relief. He felt absurdly well-rested, and resented the fact. He should feel like shit. He'd just screwed his boss, for God's sake.</p>
<p>Cameron, he realized, would be sick with envy.</p>
<p>If he told her. Which he had absolutely no intention of doing.</p>
<p>Still, there was one matter on which he had to set the record straight. So to speak. "I didn't mistake you for anyone," he mumbled, scooping his tie off the floor and concentrating on knotting it.</p>
<p>"Well, that's one perfectly good theory down." House sounded oddly unperturbed by the idea. "You don't look a thing like Carmen anyway. You're pretty, but you're not that pretty."</p>
<p>Chase hesitated as he adjusted his tie, turning over the possibilities in his mind. Some sly, scheming part of his brain, the part that was always looking for an angle, a way to ingratiate himself, was murmuring insistently in the back of his head.</p>
<p>"Of course," House added, "you've just blown your best excuse to forget this ever happened. Care to dazzle me with a substitute, wunderkind?"</p>
<p>Chase took a deep breath and turned to face him.</p>
<p>"I don't want an excuse," he said.</p>
<p>Whatever response he was expecting, it wasn't for House to roll his eyes. But it should have been.</p>
<p>"I was afraid of that," House said with a melodramatic sigh. "Honestly, now. Is it the coffee? Has Cuddy been slipping you guys her special brew?"</p>
<p>Chase let his hands fall to his sides and took a step forward, ignoring the panicked Don't don't don't clamoring in his brain. This was his chance, maybe the only one he'd get. He wanted camaraderie with House. He wanted the delusion of respect.</p>
<p>In retrospect, maybe sex hadn't been the way to go.</p>
<p>Hindsight, et cetera, and at the time he was hardly seeing 20/20. Desperation caused a certain myopia. At the time, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to reach for House's face, to feel the shock of warm skin and sharp bone and morning stubble under his fingers, and to say softly, "It's not the coffee."</p>
<p>House closed his eyes briefly, and Chase watched, fascinated by the minute play of emotions over his face-- the tightening of his lips, the twitch of his eyebrows, the bob of his throat.</p>
<p>Then he opened his eyes again, and Chase realized his mistake.</p>
<p>House wasn't stupid. He had been called many things, but stupid wasn't one of them, and he knew exactly why Chase was doing this, had probably known long before Chase even did.</p>
<p>Chase yanked his hand away as though it had been burned, and clenched his fists at his sides. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps. He felt himself teetering on the edge of a precipice, unable to step away. There was a curious kind of freedom in it; he'd placed his cards face-up on the table, and they were greeted with naked contempt. All that remained was for the chips to fall where they may.</p>
<p>House surprised him again. He ought to have gotten used to it by now.</p>
<p>"Tonight," he said, digging sharp fingers into Chase's jaw and forcibly raising Chase's gaze to meet his own. "Your place. I'll bring the hairbrush."</p>
<p>Somehow, Chase managed to make it out the door to his car without gibbering all over the carpet.</p>
<p>He wondered what the hell he'd gotten himself into.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>September</p>
<p>Whatever it had been, he seemed to be well out of it now, at least, if House's pronouncement the previous night was any indication. This was aptly demonstrated throughout the rest of the afternoon. House didn't even do him the courtesy of avoiding his gaze; he stared right back at Chase with the same cool, impatient look he always did.</p>
<p>The first time it happened, Chase was leaning back in his chair and tapping his pen against his teeth. He was already regretting tossing his uneaten tuna sandwich; his empty stomach roiled inside him like a living creature. House was busily scribbling Janice Loew's symptoms on the whiteboard and barking them out as he went. When he glanced over his shoulder at the three of them, raking Chase with an unconcerned stare, the abused pen fell from Chase's fingers to his lap, and he scrambled to retrieve it, nearly losing his balance in the process. The pen clattered to the floor, far more loudly than a Bic had any right to clatter.</p>
<p>Chase hastily righted himself and bent to retrieve it, grateful for the excuse to hide his burning face; the curse of fair skin. Safe behind a fall of hair, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. House was going to have a field day with this.</p>
<p>House, amazingly, didn't say a word. He simply nodded once and scrawled the final symptom on the board with a flourish. If the twin Ps of "partial paralysis" seemed particularly jaunty to Chase, he was not about to comment.</p>
<p>He felt Cameron and Foreman's stares burning into the back of his skull, and set his jaw and refused to look at them. If they wanted to speculate, they could do it without his input.</p>
<p>House cleared his throat pointedly. Chase gave a guilty start and looked up; House was tapping the marker against the whiteboard with ill-concealed annoyance. "Does anyone want to tell me what these latest symptoms mean, or are you all too busy committing Chase's profile to memory?"</p>
<p>Chase gritted his teeth and kept his head down. He should have known the reprieve wouldn't last.</p>
<p>Except House still wasn't actually talking to him.</p>
<p>Curiosity got the better of him, and he glanced up just in time to see House leaning conspiratorially towards Cameron, who was now staring at her own hands. "You can't actually burn a hole through someone's brain like that," he confided. "Believe me, I've tried."</p>
<p>Cameron straightened and squared her shoulders. "It means the disease is progressing."</p>
<p>"Not good enough." House snapped his fingers vaguely at the rest of the room. "Anyone else?"</p>
<p>"It means she's dying," Chase heard himself say, "very quickly," and braced for impact.</p>
<p>To his surprise, House merely nodded again. "Now who wants to be really radical and tell me what's wrong with the lady?"</p>
<p>Who doesn't? Chase thought, noting the way Cameron's teeth dug into her lower lip, Foreman's carefully studied neutrality. All of them desperate, in their own way, for House's approval. He couldn't even begin to imagine what he must look like.</p>
<p>"Fine," House said, and heaved himself past him to the door. "Potty break. Try not to break anything while I'm gone."</p>
<p>As soon as the door swung shut behind him, Cameron opened her mouth.</p>
<p>Chase stood abruptly, gathering his things from the table. With a muttered "'Scuse me," he stepped blindly into the hallway and picked a direction at random, praying it wasn't the same one House had chosen.</p>
<p>He'd been prepared for ridicule; working with House, public humiliation was an old hat by now. He'd even been prepared for, if dreading, more tortuous drudge-work.</p>
<p>The one thing he hadn't prepared himself for was nothing at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>May</p>
<p>Approximately 24 hours after the ill-advised affair began, Chase ended it for the first time.</p>
<p>He'd spent the day in a state of near-nervous breakdown, flinching at odd sounds and nearly leaping to attention every time House entered the room. House, for his part, simply behaved House-like as usual, yet somehow even more so; in a sense, more House than House. He made rude remarks about Cameron's cleavage that left her with an odd little half-pleased, half-pissed smile on her face; he alluded to Foreman's less-than-impressive criminal past on no less than seven separate occasions, and that was just before noon; and he made a point of asking in front of everybody, as though the idea had just occurred to him, whether Chase had heard from his father recently. He did not, however, make any mention of Chase's arse or his supposed predilection for nipple clamps, for which Chase was disbelievingly and profoundly grateful. He didn't think his nerves could have taken it.</p>
<p>He'd been sure the others would notice something was wrong, but they both seemed lost in their own thoughts. Cameron kept giving House these long, moony looks (If only she knew, Chase thought uncharitably, and then panicked all over again), while Foreman did shoot him some odd glances, but seemed content not to pry for once. Wilson had dropped by late in the morning, but after a few minutes of the excessive Houseness, he wisely ducked out again and vanished for the rest of the day.</p>
<p>Thank God they didn't have a new patient already. Chase's brain was no good to anybody at the moment; he doubted he could even remember how to work a syringe. He did have clinic duty in the afternoon, but that was never taxing, and he welcomed the mindless activity for the distraction it provided. For two blissful hours, he peered into sore throats, probed swollen lymph nodes, handed out antibiotics like they were candy, and didn't think about House once.</p>
<p>By the time 5:00 rolled around, however, the soporific effects had worn off and he was almost as much of a wreck as before. He didn't stop in front of House's office this time. He kept his eyes fixed on the carpet in front of him and picked up the pace more than was strictly necessary, moving at such a clip that Wilson had to jog to catch up with him.</p>
<p>"Hey!" Wilson wasn't quite out of breath, but it was close. "If I were a delicate soul, I might think you were ignoring me."</p>
<p>Chase turned to stare at him, momentarily at a loss for words. With his face slightly flushed and a lock of dark hair falling over one eye, James Wilson looked impossibly young. Chase realized he was looking at the man with new eyes-- assessing eyes, sexual eyes-- and felt his face burn.</p>
<p>No. That was not how it worked. One night with another man did not turn a person gay. He was a doctor. He knew better than that.</p>
<p>And he did not just check out Wilson's package.</p>
<p>Chase wrenched his gaze back up to Wilson's face, which was growing more and more curious by the second, and dredged up a weak smile from reserves he didn't even think existed. "Sorry. I was kind of lost in thought."</p>
<p>Which was actually the truth; he hadn't heard the man call his name. But if he had, he would have been sorely tempted to pretend otherwise. Wilson was dangerous (unaware that three months later he'd think the same about Cameron, with the same implied threat); Wilson knew House.</p>
<p>Sure enough, the first thing out of Wilson's mouth was, "Is something going on with House? He's acting... off... today."</p>
<p>Chase quickened his pace, anxious to reach the elevator and the safety of his car below, and Wilson simply lengthened his stride to keep up. Peeved, Chase inquired, "Why ask me?"</p>
<p>"Because you're acting weird too," Wilson said, and Chase's legs stopped moving. Unfortunately, the rest of him didn't get the memo.</p>
<p>He pitched forward and flailed for balance, managing at the last minute to catch himself before he made a rather personal acquaintance with the floor. Wilson proffered one hand with a slightly quirked eyebrow, but made no other move to assist.</p>
<p>Chase waved the hand away, casting about for-- and utterly failing to find-- the tattered shreds of his dignity. "Think it's communicable?" he asked, a bit breathless, and immediately regretted the question; it opened up all kinds of worrying avenues of pursuit, such as how, exactly, said weirdness was communicated.</p>
<p>Wilson was not House, and so he did not ask the obvious, if crude, question. All he said was, "I was hoping you could tell me."</p>
<p>Chase stopped at the elevator and stabbed twice at the down button. Wilson, to his dismay, halted too.</p>
<p>"Couldn't say," he said flatly.</p>
<p>"Hmm," Wilson said.</p>
<p>Chase stared at the flickering floor numbers as the elevator descended. 9, 8, 7-- he wouldn't ask, wouldn't ask, would not ask.... "What, 'hmm'?"</p>
<p>"Oh, nothing," Wilson said. A maddening pause, then: "Interesting choice of words, is all."</p>
<p>If there was a God, Chase thought, He would strike Chase dead on the spot.</p>
<p>"You know," Wilson said with a narrow-eyed stare, "I think I left my briefcase in my office."</p>
<p>Well. It wasn't spontaneous combustion, but it would do.</p>
<p>As he stepped into the elevator, blessedly alone and not even shaking a lot, Chase started to rethink his stance on the whole church thing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He arrived home at 6:17. By 6:30, he was already on his third glass of scotch.</p>
<p>House had never said when tonight he planned to arrive, and an hour and half a bottle later, Chase's stomach was starting to make its displeasure known. Chase knew without looking that he didn't have so much as a TV dinner left in the freezer. Options: he could run to the superette on the corner. He could try that new Thai restaurant over on the next block. And if House arrived while he was gone, well, it would serve the bastard right to have to wait around in the hallway. But would he? Or would he turn right back around and head for home? And was Chase hoping for or fearing the latter? The stack of delivery menus loomed temptingly by the phone.</p>
<p>In the end, he didn't move from the sofa and poured himself another shot instead. He never could eat when he was nervous.</p>
<p>The buzzer rang at 9:54 p.m.</p>
<p>Chase opened the door and greeted House with a grumpy, "I do have work tomorrow, you know."</p>
<p>"Well whoop-de-doo," House said, unimpressed. "I'll write you a doctor's note. Think your boss will go for that?"</p>
<p>Chase just blinked at him. Copious amounts of alcohol on an empty stomach were taking their toll. Suddenly, getting drunk didn't seem like such a good idea after all. He could barely keep up with House when sober.</p>
<p>The question, of course, was by that time entirely academic.</p>
<p>House made an impatient noise. "Should I come in, or do you want to have sex right here in the hallway?"</p>
<p>Later, House told Chase, with a hugely inappropriate degree of relish, that he had actually squeaked. House was willing to forgive the indignity of being grabbed by the forearm and towed bodily into the apartment just for the opportunity to hear that squeak, and also because House hadn't actually been injured, which was by no means a given; Chase hadn't exactly had the presence of mind to be gentle.</p>
<p>Chase, of course, refused to believe it. Though he did vaguely recall slamming the door shut tout suite behind House.</p>
<p>Whatever goodwill he may have engendered by whatever funny noises he may or may not have made, however, it was not enough to prevent House from yanking his (surprisingly strong, and rock-hard) forearm from Chase's grip with a haughty, "Oh, sure, let's play wheelbarrow with the cripple. I love party games."</p>
<p>"That wasn't the wheelbarrow," Chase felt compelled to point out. "You had the wrong end in the air. Though some might dispute that point."</p>
<p>"Oh you Brits," House said, with a patently fake chuckle. "You're all so very droll."</p>
<p>"I'm Australian," Chase said, "and you know it." He took a step forward. House still stood in front of the closed door; if he backed up a couple of steps, he would be pressed up against it. But House held his ground, and Chase started to think that maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.</p>
<p>Then House blinked twice, rapidly, and held out a small plastic bag. "For you," he said, the ghost of a smirk lingering around his mouth.</p>
<p>Why Gregory, you shouldn't have, Chase refrained from saying, though not by much. He had a sinking feeling he wasn't going to like the contents of the bag.</p>
<p>With mounting dread, he opened it and peered inside.</p>
<p>A sturdy, old-fashioned wooden hairbrush, the kind with boar's-hair bristles, mocked him from within the plastic depths. A jaunty red ribbon was tied around the thick handle.</p>
<p>Yep. Knew he wouldn't like it.</p>
<p>"I did promise," House said. He sounded... defensive? Weird.</p>
<p>Still staring at the brush, Chase said numbly, "I think this is a really bad idea."</p>
<p>"No argument here," House said. "More to the point, though, it's your really bad idea."</p>
<p>"Hang on, you asked me back to yours!"</p>
<p>"Right, and the fact that I had an altar boy staring at my dick had nothing to do with it." House paused, lost for the moment in what was undoubtedly deep, absurd thought. "If I started referring to my penis in the third person, would you still respect me in the morning?"</p>
<p>"I think," Chase said before he could stop himself, or even decide whether he wanted to, "that we'd finally have enough ammo to institutionalize you for good."</p>
<p>House acknowledged the comment with a faint twitch of his lips. "So that's a no to the hairbrush, then," he said, and Chase heard the subtext loud and clear.</p>
<p>"Yeah," he said, and meant no, as in no more of this if we know what's good for us.</p>
<p>Which, given both their track records, was by no means a foregone conclusion.</p>
<p>Again with that odd little lip twitch, and then House said, "I've come all this way. It's only polite to offer me a drink."</p>
<p>"Um," Chase said. "Okay." He paused. "Want a drink?"</p>
<p>"Why, how splendid of you to offer," House said. "I see I have some catching up to do."</p>
<p>Chase started backing away from him with a deep sense of foreboding, and House took the opportunity to look around the room, his eyes unnaturally bright with some unreadable emotion. "Gotta say, not quite the swingin' bachelor pad I was expecting. Where's the chrome and glass and black leather? TV's usually so accurate about these things. Did you offer me a drink? I forget."</p>
<p>This last was delivered as a sardonic aside over his shoulder as House stalked over to the far wall, inspecting the painting over the fireplace-- a bright, psychedelic abstract, by an artist he knew in New York, not a gift from a friend, but discounted and therefore just as good. Chase took advantage of the reprieve and retreated to the liquor cabinet, carelessly clinking bottles against each other in his haste. The scotch was long gone; he didn't feel cheerful enough for tequila, or suicidal enough for vodka. Whiskey, then.</p>
<p>Christ. He'd never just had a drink with House. Not unless he counted that time in the bar with the drug rep, but that wasn't just a drink. Nothing was just anything with House.</p>
<p>He'd had more social interaction with Cameron and Foreman, for God's sake.</p>
<p>Then again, before last night he hadn't done a lot of things with House. Tossing back a few in the warmth and comfort of his own apartment didn't rank that high on the weirdness scale.</p>
<p>He'd performed emergency tracheotomies on raving loonies who'd threatened to deck him if he so much as touched them with his scalpel. He could handle a quiet drink. Just one.</p>
<p>Except one turned into two, which turned into the sloppy geometry of a true bender, shot glasses multiplying exponentially in his head, if not necessarily on the table; no reason to wash more dishes than he had to. House sipped his whiskey more slowly-- though he seemed to approve of it-- but then, Chase suspected he'd already been flying high on more than just hormones by the time he'd finally appeared at the door.</p>
<p>It occurred to him then, a sudden flash of drunken insight, that maybe House had had trouble working up the nerve as well.</p>
<p>The thought was oddly cheering, and he drained the last of his latest (and last, if he had anything to say about it) glass and slammed it down on the table. House blinked slowly, staring at him, but saying nothing. The silence was par for the evening, and unnerving in itself; he'd never known House to go so long without some kind of smart remark. But after a few failed attempts at small talk, they'd settled into an uneasy, challenging silence, eyes meeting as they drank, the tension stretching taut between them and--</p>
<p>Christ. Shit. Fucking hell. He was just drunk enough to do something unbelievably stupid if he wasn't careful. Like maybe jumping his boss for the second night in a row.</p>
<p>He caught himself staring at House's lips-- thin, almost delicate, would be if they weren't twisted in a habitual sneer of disdain-- and wondering what it would be like to kiss them.</p>
<p>Fucking hell.</p>
<p>He didn't want to do this. That was the whole point. That was why he wasn't doing it. Because otherwise he'd currently be finding out exactly what a kiss would be like-- if House let him-- let him, hell, he'd take it--</p>
<p>Except he didn't. Want to.</p>
<p>Chase huddled against his end of the sofa, a hermit crab retreating into its shell, and glanced desperately around the room for a distraction. His eyes lit on the offending plastic bag, sitting forlorn and forgotten by the door. That would do. House had brought him a hairbrush, for God's sake. That didn't turn him on at all.</p>
<p>Sure, Robbie, you just keep thinking that.</p>
<p>Suddenly he felt sick, sick and dizzy and claustrophobic and far too aware of House breathing next to him, sitting way too close for comfort even with the length of the sofa between them. He shot to his feet and grabbed at the sofa arm for balance. Disaster averted, twice in one day. He was mighty.</p>
<p>He was mighty fucking plonked, was what he was.</p>
<p>"I have to," he announced and, when House cocked an inquiring eyebrow up at him, immediately lost his train of thought. "Um. I have to."</p>
<p>Derailed at the station.</p>
<p>"Powder your nose," House offered, as he stared into the distance and racked his brain. "Wash your hair. Shampoo the dog, dust the cupboards, cover my clinic hours for the next two weeks--"</p>
<p>"I'm gonna pass out," Chase blurted out, then frowned. "I don't have a dog."</p>
<p>A long, exaggerated look around the room, taking in the expensive furniture, the pristine hardwood floors. "I'm astounded."</p>
<p>"And I'm not covering your fucking clinic hours."</p>
<p>"Foiled again." House regarded him from beneath half-lidded eyes, seeming to loom even while sitting down.</p>
<p>Sitting down. Face approximately at crotch height.</p>
<p>Chase swallowed.</p>
<p>"Go pass out," House said, voice so Dr. House-authoritative, so patient is suffering from extreme inebriation; recommended treatment, unconsciousness-diagnostic that he almost snapped out I'll get a CT scan from sheer instinct, mouth half-open before he managed to catch himself. Christ, that was a little disturbing.</p>
<p>"Or puke," House continued. "Whichever, I'm not picky."</p>
<p>Dismissed; business as usual. Chase was halfway to the bedroom before he stopped and turned around. "You can't drive."</p>
<p>"People keep telling me that," House remarked.</p>
<p>"That's not. I mean--" He gestured vaguely. "Now, you can't drive now--"</p>
<p>"Projecting a bit, don't you think?" House arched a sardonic eyebrow, and Chase set his jaw-- House had been drinking after all, not as much as him maybe, but he'd definitely downed three glasses at least.</p>
<p>House relented far too quickly to be relenting at all. "Nice couch. Think I'll stay here for a while. Enjoy the view. You have digital cable, right?"</p>
<p>Chase blinked, his jaw slackening. House out here, him unconscious in the next room-- the thought was, simply put, terrifying.</p>
<p>House didn't miss a trick, and he certainly never missed fear. His eyes narrowed, mouth thinning into a smug, malicious slash in his otherwise stone-cold face. Chase gaped at the transformation; just moments ago he'd been... relaxed. Almost friendly, even. Not so much now.</p>
<p>The words, when they came, matched the mouth. "Oh, come on. I promise not to rape you in your sleep. Whaddya say?"</p>
<p>He felt his already-pink face flush even more (alcohol, just the alcohol and too-fair skin). Ugly words; House's specialty. He'd thought he'd gotten used to them by now. Was surprised they could still hurt.</p>
<p>But that was what had driven him to Vogler in the first place, wasn't it? Wounded pride. Words that hurt.</p>
<p>"Fine," he said, through stiff, uncooperative lips. "Lock up when you leave."</p>
<p>"Yes, Mom."</p>
<p>Chase allowed himself a quick, dubious glance at House's leg-- if he passed out on the sofa, he'd hurt like hell in the morning. But Chase sure as hell wasn't offering the man his bed. He retreated to the bedroom instead, without another word, and slammed the door behind him.</p>
<p>He thought about locking the door, then realized that House would hear it if he did.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometime during the night, Ronnie Warfield, Jr., was brought into the ER, comatose for no apparent reason. By the time Chase arrived, cautiously optimistic about the future of his working relationship with his boss and now (he winced at the term) ex-lover-- optimism aided by his somewhat spotty recollection of the latter part of the evening-- House was already scribbling madly on the whiteboard.</p>
<p>"You're late," House pronounced as he walked in, crossing a t with a melodramatic flourish. If he'd had a mustache instead of scruffy, unkempt stubble, he would've been petting it. "What's the juicy secret, loverboy? Killer hangover? One-night stand that just wouldn't go away?"</p>
<p>So much for optimism.</p>
<p>Chase met his cool stare bitterly and tried to ignore his racing pulse; Loverboy? he would have asked House incredulously, had they been alone. "One-night stand that just wouldn't shut up," he said instead, through gritted teeth.</p>
<p>House's eyes flickered brief approval.</p>
<p>"That's disgusting," Cameron said flatly.</p>
<p>Chase stared at her, feeling injured and not a little put-upon. She glared back.</p>
<p>Foreman raised his hand to shoulder height. "Could we stop talking about Chase's conquests now?"</p>
<p>House made a mock-sympathetic face. "What's the matter, Foreman, professional jealousy? The Love Doctor just don't got the pull he used to with the chicks? I'm sure Chase would be glad to give you a refresher course."</p>
<p>Chase tuned out Foreman's sarcastic response and the ensuing byplay, taking the opportunity to drop his bag by his chair and pour a cup of coffee. He had, in fact, woken up with a raging hangover, and the last remnants of it still throbbed behind his eyeballs, but that wasn't the reason he was late.</p>
<p>He had run into Stacey Warner in the hallway.</p>
<p>Just two days after her husband's diagnosis, there she was back at the hospital, striding through the hallways in an elegant power suit and sensible heels. At first her presence didn't seem at all strange; he just assumed she was there to visit Mark.</p>
<p>He nodded at her in distant acknowledgment as they passed. To his surprise, Stacey stopped and said, "Hey-- Dr. Chase, right?"</p>
<p>"Yes," Chase admitted, watching her warily. This was House's real ex-lover, after all, the one who knew him better than anyone else (save, one might argue, for Wilson). What if-- God, what if she could smell House on him or something?</p>
<p>Right. Smell him. Earth to Chase; your little green men have landed, and they're here to take you home.</p>
<p>Stacey tilted her head to the side and gave him a considering look. Despite his height advantage, he felt decidedly intimidated.</p>
<p>"The-- what was it, the wombat?" she continued, with a small smile.</p>
<p>"I prefer Chase," he said dryly.</p>
<p>"Can't imagine why," she said, her tone just as dry. Then she dropped her voice, low enough that Chase had to lean in to hear her. "How's Greg doing? Lately, I mean."</p>
<p>"Hard to tell," Chase hedged, after the first instinctive burst of Whyareyouaskingme? First Wilson, now Stacey; what, did he have a neon sign on his forehead? Then, more truthfully: "He's... kind of in rare form of late."</p>
<p>That was some rare form, all right.</p>
<p>Stacey sighed. "I just, I don't know, with me taking this job-- I mean, he said he didn't mind, but of course he'd never say if he did."</p>
<p>"Job," Chase echoed dumbly. "Here?"</p>
<p>"Oh," she said, looking consternated. "Crap." She paused. "Well, I guess it's not a secret. It's not even personal. Lisa offered me my old job back."</p>
<p>Lisa? Chase wondered. Oh, right-- Cuddy. Odd to hear her referred to by her first name. House avoided given names like the plague. He even called Wilson "Wilson".</p>
<p>He wondered how long it had taken Stacey to progress to the coveted given-name status, or if she'd occupied that exalted position from the start.</p>
<p>Then: She's working here? God, he thought, House was going to be even more unbearable than usual. Snappish House could last for months.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry," Stacey said, looking rueful. "I've just made your life a lot harder, haven't I?"</p>
<p>"Yeah, well," Chase said, a little unnerved at how accurately she had read his mind. "Not exactly your fault, is it?"</p>
<p>"Call it what it is," Stacey agreed. "Greg's the one holding the whip."</p>
<p>Chase opened his mouth, then shut it again, assaulted by lurid mental images.</p>
<p>"'Scuse me," he muttered, "I'm late," and fled.</p>
<p>Considering the welcome he'd gotten, he ought not have rushed. Chase could only imagine the size of the knackers it took for House to allude to his love life in front of Cameron and Foreman and, well, Cameron. Except he didn't have to imagine, but that wasn't a thought he was anxious to have at the moment.</p>
<p>It was, he thought with a quiet sigh, going to be a very long day.</p>
<p>And then House informed him that he would have to go to Robbie Warfield's favorite hangout, a biker bar in the decidedly bad part of town, and gather information on his possible sexual partners.</p>
<p>Chase sat down slowly, staring at House in horror. "You have got to be shitting me."</p>
<p>"Ah, the English language," House said. "So poetic, don't you think? So musical to the ear."</p>
<p>"Why me?" He knew he was dangerously close to whining, but he didn't care. Biker bar, for God's sake.</p>
<p>"Because Cameron would get eaten alive," House said bluntly, "and Foreman would get his attractively hued ass kicked right back out the door. You're my go-to Aryan boy, Chase, so go to, already."</p>
<p>Chase was pretty sure that the foremost thought in his mind probably shouldn't be, You think Foreman's arse is attractive?</p>
<p>He wouldn't look for himself. He would not look for himself.</p>
<p>He looked.</p>
<p>Not half bad, actually.</p>
<p>Foreman shook his head, seemingly oblivious to the visual molestation. "Better you than me, white boy."</p>
<p>"Thanks for the support," Chase said glumly.</p>
<p>"Besides," House said, and winked at him. "You look so good in that leather jacket."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Five minutes at the oh-so-imaginatively-named Pit Stop, and Chase knew the place for exactly what it was: sheer, unalloyed hell.</p>
<p>He'd been shoved, punched-- oh, but a friendly punch-- and otherwise manhandled from the moment he set foot inside the door. The third time some hulking mountain of studded leather called him "pretty boy," he had to resist the urge to punch someone in the face. In the end, the only thing that held him back was the clinical knowledge of just how badly bones could be broken. He'd seen grown men writhing and crying like babies; he had no desire to become one of them.</p>
<p>Screw them all, and screw House (been there, done that) for putting him in this position. This was not what Chase had signed on for.</p>
<p>And, as Ronnie Warfield's good buddy, er, Bud slammed him backwards over a billiards table and threatened him with the business end of a cue for poking around in ol' Junior's personal business:</p>
<p>Screw House through the wall.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Chase returned to PPTH with a split lip, a decidedly pronounced limp, and what felt like a permanent scowl.</p>
<p>"My God," House said, emerging from his office to gawk. "What'd they do, gang-bang you?"</p>
<p>"I hate you," Chase said, slowly and distinctly.</p>
<p>"Hey now. No need to get personal."</p>
<p>Chase gritted his teeth together. "What is this," he hissed, "revenge because I won't sleep with you, because I won't play your little games--"</p>
<p>House blinked at him. "Yes, all right, you've found me out. I can't live without you, Robert. Take me now, take me hard--"</p>
<p>"I. Hate. You," Chase ground out, and spun on his heel and stalked away.</p>
<p>"Learn anything?" House called down the hall after him.</p>
<p>"That I hate you!" Chase yelled back.</p>
<p>A passing nurse shook her head in sympathy. "Join the club, honey," she said under her breath.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That evening, Chase did something truly desperate and more-or-less unprecedented: he went for a run.</p>
<p>He never ran; he hated running. The dull monotony, the sheer pointlessness of it, and the damage he knew he was doing to his knees and his shins-- suffice to say that if there wasn't a football in front of him, he didn't see the point. But he had to do something physical, something to work off the anger and adrenaline that still simmered inside him, and there was a distinct lack of ski slopes in the greater Princeton area. If he were the type to punch things, he would have hit a punching bag for a while. If he'd owned a punching bag, anyway. He still wasn't ruling it out as a possibility.</p>
<p>But for the time being, he ran.</p>
<p>By the second mile, he already regretted his earlier outburst, though not enough that he wasn't still pissed. It was the lack of control that bugged him. He'd gotten good at not letting House see him react, shrugging off his caustic comments and petty torments with a smile or an eye-roll, and only venting later, if at all. It was generally the safest, sanest way to get through the day. House was like a vicious stray dog; the instant he sensed weakness, he went for the throat.</p>
<p>At least that was what Chase told himself, why he kept a tight grip on his temper and told himself he didn't even mind all that much, got to the point where he really didn't mind, mainly because House had new fodder first in Cameron and then Foreman and tended to leave Chase alone and trust him to do his job. He was more gratified than he'd admit by that trust, limited though it was, and for a while he'd done his best to live up to it.</p>
<p>Then House wormed his way into Chase's personal fucking business with his father, and then Chase fucked up Carly Forlano's angiogram, and just like that the grace period-- because that was what it felt like, and he resolutely refused to think of it as the honeymoon-- was over. Young doctors were, as a rule, ambitious and bloodthirsty, jockeying for position in the pack like feral wolves. As Foreman settled into his role and stopped taking everything House said so damn personally, and Cameron started getting under House's skin (and he wouldn't fool himself, much as he wanted to, he knew House felt something for her), that left Chase as the most vulnerable target. And House loathed vulnerability. Finally, something they had in common.</p>
<p>And yet... he'd lost his temper finally, snapped at House, yelled at him, and instead of pouncing House had barely even reacted. Had been sarcastic, of course-- when wasn't he?-- but still, somehow, oddly reasonable. Subdued, even.</p>
<p>I hate you. It should have hurt him, damn it, at least a little, and Chase was man enough to admit it-- that, if nothing more. He'd wanted to hurt House.</p>
<p>If it hurt him, that meant House gave a shit.</p>
<p>Healthy, Robbie. Very healthy.</p>
<p>Mid-mile three, the residual twinge in his leg flared into a full-blown muscle cramp. Chase staggered to a stop, doubled over and breathing heavily, and tried to massage the pain out of his leg, which of course made him think of House. Again. Some more.</p>
<p>He wondered if House had been a runner, before.</p>
<p>Situation: fucked up, prognosis: grim. He'd sucked House's dick and had subsequently been less tormented by the man than usual. He'd broken it off, and the very next day House sent him to a biker bar to get his arse kicked all over a billiards table. He could still feel the dull, unyielding pressure of the balls against his spine.</p>
<p>Narcissistic, maybe, but Chase couldn't help but see a pattern begin to emerge.</p>
<p>Still, it was only a hypothesis, and one which bore further investigation. And if that meant he got to feel House's piano-player fingers on his dick again, well... that was a sacrifice he was willing to make for peace of mind at work.</p>
<p>He wasn't capitulating. He was making a strategically sound decision.</p>
<p>It was disturbingly easy to convince himself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>September</p>
<p>Peace of mind seemed about as likely now as a dozen roses and a heartfelt apology. Chase was impressed despite himself. How long could House keep up the polite disregard? What was he trying to prove?</p>
<p>The rest of the day provided no further clues. Janice Loew's condition continued to worsen; the three of them continued to fail to determine what was making her sick; and House continued to be embittered by his own failure to hit upon yet another brilliant, miraculous solution, and to take it out on Cameron and Foreman. He also continued to say nothing more to Chase than was strictly necessary to avoid killing the patient.</p>
<p>Silent treatment, Chase thought, very mature, but he had a gut feeling that that wasn't the whole story. True, for a man almost 20 years Chase's senior, maturity was not exactly House's strong suit, but he was pretty sure there was more to it than just another punishment for refusing to screw House. Or maybe he just hoped there was.</p>
<p>But then, he hadn't refused, had he? The previous night, they'd never gotten that far. And House had been the one to kick him out, not the other way around. So he wasn't allowed to end things, but House was. Nice. The prospect of filing suit was looking more and more appealing.</p>
<p>House had never come out and said as much, of course. He never said he'd make Chase's life a living hell if he wasn't kept regularly laid. He didn't have to. Chase was capable of learning from experience, and it didn't take long to put the pieces together. The Warfield incident three months before had only been the tip of the iceberg-- just the first of Chase's many attacks of conscience, or maybe just plain anxiety, all of which were rewarded the next day with some kind of punishment. Sometimes he just made Chase run bloodwork all afternoon, noting acerbically that the more he did it, the less likely he was to screw it up. Once he'd set Chase on bedpan duty, when the night nurse for the ward hadn't arrived on shift yet and their patient was bellowing about the smell. And then, of course, there were the just plain embarrassing tasks-- nothing life- or limb-threatening, after the first ill-advised mission to the Pit Stop, but he was pretty sure no one actually needed to go through the Macavoys' trash, and he was damn sure it didn't have to be during early evening, just in time for Paul Macavoy to arrive home from his son's bedside at the hospital and find the scruffy, smelly kid in the leather jacket picking through rotting banana peels and old sticky issues of Playboy. Chase only prayed the stickiness was just the decomposition liquids, and showered for about an hour and a half when he finally got home.</p>
<p>And of course, whenever it happened he was too fucking terrified to complain. Wuss, he thought, without real heat. House now had the ammunition to drag Chase all the way down, if he didn't mind going down with him-- and with House, who could ever tell? The petty torments had to be better than the alternative. Exposure, disgrace, merciless mocking... and even then, in the end, he always went back, because the sex was better than the torment was better than... et cetera, infinite recursion.</p>
<p>It was a trade-off, no matter what House said. Chase could sleep with him, or he could suffer. Usually he was happy with the former; sex was sex, after all, and now that he looked House was not at all unattractive, though he still had no desire to cuddle with the man. And maybe, just maybe, he got off a little on the very same thing he was terrified of: the professional danger inherent in screwing his male boss. Or rather, being screwed by him. Another tacit agreement-- House always took the lead, so House did what he wanted, and Chase didn't quite have the nerve to push his luck (luck, strange word for it). And if he wasn't overly bothered by it, well, maybe it was that power thing again. Though of course he'd rather gouge out his own eyes with a melon baller than admit it out loud.</p>
<p>And it was all moot now anyway. Whatever had happened between them, whatever agreements were tacit or spoken, it was over now, and if Chase hadn't managed to retain his dignity (forfeit upon employment, he suspected), at least he didn't have to live in fear of his colleagues' derision, or House's volatile moods, or the day House would tell him, yes, it was imperative that he suit up in full bondage gear and take his flogging like a good boy-- For the good of the patient, obviously-- and Chase would, of course, be powerless to resist. Didn't matter that he couldn't possibly conceive of the context for that particular treatment; he would not be surprised in the least.</p>
<p>This way was better. It had to be better.</p>
<p>The alternative was just way too fucking sad.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>June</p>
<p>Despite his resolution, Chase held out until the end of the week, determined to see if House would crack first. Between Foreman's obvious amusement at the state of his face, House's relentless mocking, and the persistent ache in his leg, however, he finally gave in.</p>
<p>If he'd had Vicodin to muffle the annoyance, he might have held out longer, but that would only have delayed the inevitable. Chase supposed he always knew he would be the one to break.</p>
<p>Only two shots, this time, and he felt capable of facing House. He squinted at the phone for a few moments, wondering dismally why he already had the man's home number committed to memory, and then gritted his teeth and dialed.</p>
<p>I'm not here. Leave a message.</p>
<p>Chase hesitated, caught flat-footed by the answering machine. Should he leave an incriminating message? Would anyone care, if they heard it? Was anyone but Wilson even likely to hear it? And more to point, would House even call him back? The possibilities were endless. As the recorder continued to unspool and he started to seriously verge on Heavy Breathing Stalker territory, he heard a click and House's annoyed voice.</p>
<p>"If you're gonna call my machine to jack off, at least do me the favor of leaving a running commentary."</p>
<p>Chase blinked at the receiver, then returned it to his ear. "How'd you know it was me?"</p>
<p>"You breathe Australian," House snapped. "Also, there's this amazing new invention, caller ID. You might have heard of it."</p>
<p>"Oh," Chase said after a moment. "Yeah. That."</p>
<p>A pointed pause. "Are you drinking?"</p>
<p>The again, he knew, was implied.</p>
<p>"Why?" Chase returned, somewhat less than brilliantly.</p>
<p>"I'd like to know what level of conversation we're about to have. I'm trying to schedule my time better."</p>
<p>It was just enough of a non sequitur that Chase didn't feel capable of mounting a proper retort. "Had a bit," he admitted instead.</p>
<p>"And where drunk goes, drunk-dialing is sure to follow. Why, oh, why did I get involved with an incipient alcoholic?"</p>
<p>Chase heard his teeth snap shut at the end of the sentence, as though closing too late after words that weren't supposed to escape. His anger at the crack about alcoholism was as brief as it was fervent, distracted as he was by the new puzzle. Involved, House had said, and Chase might not even have thought twice about the word choice, if not for House's own reaction.</p>
<p>Involved. One little word, so many meanings. What did it mean to a bitter misanthrope who, Chase knew, hadn't had a real relationship in years?</p>
<p>"Doesn't this bother you?" he asked abruptly.</p>
<p>"This conversation? So far, yes."</p>
<p>"I mean this," Chase said, scowling at the base of the cordless phone. "Us. Whatever the hell we're doing."</p>
<p>"We're not doing anything anymore. Your idea, I believe. Unless--" House paused. "Did I miss a memo?"</p>
<p>Chase closed his eyes. "Fine. Did it bother you?"</p>
<p>"Anyway, you hate me. You said so yourself. Several times, at a rather annoyingly loud volume."</p>
<p>"Once more and I'll think you're avoiding the question."</p>
<p>A long pause, and then House said, "Everything bothers me. You'll have to be more specific about the particular behavior we're talking about here."</p>
<p>"Non-answer number three. You're quite good at that."</p>
<p>A long, gusty sigh. "Why did you call me, Chase?"</p>
<p>"Because," Chase said, feeling his face heat and thankful that House couldn't see him, "I don't hate you. Actually."</p>
<p>"Why did you need to get drunk to tell me that?"</p>
<p>"Because sometimes I don't like you much either."</p>
<p>"And this is news." House snorted. "So you toss back a few, pick up the phone-- and for the moment, I won't comment on the morbidly perverse fact that your mother died of acute liver failure and yet you still drink like a fish, so consider it noted for future reference-- so what exactly did you hope to accomplish?"</p>
<p>Chase gritted his teeth. "I would like to get out of the lab one day, and maybe actually see a patient again."</p>
<p>"We don't have any patients. Warfield's gone home, good as new."</p>
<p>"And if Cameron hadn't told me, I never would have known."</p>
<p>"If Cameron didn't tell you, I would have. She's the efficient one. She answers my mail."</p>
<p>At this rate, he would be toothless by 30. "I would like to not be sent on any more suicide missions to annoy testosterone-soaked behemoths with ham-sized fists."</p>
<p>"If you annoyed them, that's your own fault. Don't they teach you discretion in priest school?"</p>
<p>Chase closed his eyes and fumbled blindly for the whiskey bottle. "This was a mistake."</p>
<p>House was silent for a long moment, and Chase started to think he'd hung up. Then, just as he was swigging directly from the bottle-- a simple shot glass wouldn't cover this situation, not now-- he heard, "Tomorrow?"</p>
<p>"Your place," Chase said, and slammed down the phone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>September</p>
<p>Janice Loew's latest round of bloodwork came in, and was no more forthcoming than the previous ones had been. For a change, it was all three of them in the lab, instead of Chase slaving away by himself. Given the odd looks Foreman and Cameron kept shooting him, he wondered if this wasn't just a new and different form of torture.</p>
<p>He escaped to the conference room for a coffee break as soon as was politic, and had just taken his first sip-- not too sweet, not too bitter; he'd achieved the elusive perfect balance-- when Wilson's voice interrupted his reverie.</p>
<p>"House has informed me that he's dumped you."</p>
<p>Chase dropped the mug. Hot coffee splattered over his shins.</p>
<p>"Of course," Wilson said, closing the door behind him and watching Chase hop around and mutter obscenities under his breath, making no move to assist him, "this comes as a bit of a surprise to me, seeing as I was unaware you were there to be dumped. I actually thought he might just be screwing with me, but that's answered that question, hasn't it?"</p>
<p>Chase kept his head down, busying himself with picking up the pieces of the mug. It was one of the red ones. House would be pissed; they were his favorites. "What do you want?" he asked finally, without looking up.</p>
<p>"I want to know what's going on with you two."</p>
<p>"Why don't you ask House?"</p>
<p>"Because he won't tell me."</p>
<p>Chase straightened and dumped the remains of his mug into the trash. "He's a smart guy," he said levelly, and finally looked up and met Wilson's eyes.</p>
<p>Wilson sighed. "I ought to have leaflets printed up. What is it about him, anyway? The big blue eyes? The giant phallic symbol?" At Chase's blank, and frankly humiliated, stare, he added, "Something about him drives all the little ducklings wild. Call it professional curiosity."</p>
<p>"Ducklings?" Chase echoed, outraged and intrigued.</p>
<p>Wilson shook his head. "All lessons in time, grasshopper."</p>
<p>"Look, whatever you're after, if House isn't saying anything, I'm sure as hell not going to."</p>
<p>"He said other things, too," Wilson said, as Chase brushed past him toward the door. Chase froze, and Wilson continued, "About you, I mean."</p>
<p>Slowly, with horrified fascination, Chase turned his head and stared. Wilson just blinked at him, studiously guileless.</p>
<p>"What things?" Chase asked finally.</p>
<p>"Now what reason do I have to betray a confidence?"</p>
<p>"You're supposed to be the nice one," Chase accused.</p>
<p>"Am I?" Wilson shrugged. "My ex-wives might disagree."</p>
<p>Ex-wives, plural? It was Chase's turn to blink. He knew, in the vague, gossipy sort of way that everybody knew everything-- nurses loved to talk about doctors, and the cute ones liked to talk to him-- that James Wilson had been married before, and his current missus was halfway out the door, but somehow he'd never quite reconciled the clean-cut, too-young-looking geek with the pocket protector in his lab coat, the only person in the tri-state area patient and long-suffering enough to hang around House every day by choice, with the famed serial not-quite-monogamist of legend. Suddenly it occurred to him how little he actually knew Wilson.</p>
<p>Chase set his jaw. "Fine. What do you want to know?"</p>
<p>Wilson checked his watch. "Are you free for lunch?"</p>
<p>He wasn't, actually, but Colleen in pediatrics could wait. After three-and-some months of sleeping with the man, Chase still had no idea what House thought of him, if he liked him or even thought of him at all. If Wilson could offer him some insight, information, anything....</p>
<p>"What time?" he asked, his pulse pounding in his throat.</p>
<p>Wilson's face was a bland enigma, whatever thoughts he might have had concealed behind a mask of boyish innocence. "Give me half an hour to finish up here," he said. "I'll swing by the lab and pick you up."</p>
<p>Yeah, right. Like Chase could concentrate on blood tests now.</p>
<p>He trudged back to the lab, feeling like a condemned man, caught by his own unwilling curiosity. He clung to one thought, and it buoyed him up enough to survive the next thirty minutes without major incident: House had said something about him. He'd talked to Wilson.</p>
<p>House thought about him. Maybe he even gave a damn.</p>
<p>Only one way to find out: ask somebody else.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wilson took him to a restaurant he'd been to once or twice before-- good wine, decent steaks, salads that looked more like nonobjective art than actual food. Chase ordered a bottle of the former and a random specimen of the latter, hoping it would be semi-edible.</p>
<p>If you're trying to woo me, he wanted to say, I come cheaper than this, but he didn't think Wilson would appreciate it.</p>
<p>House would have just said: Yes. Yes, you do.</p>
<p>As he sucked down wine and waited for his food, he avoided Wilson's shrewd gaze and told the whole damn sordid story. Wilson didn't say anything, which he supposed was the best he could hope for; just saying the words out loud made him want to crawl under the table and hide. He had been monumentally stupid, and the reality was finally starting to sink in.</p>
<p>Chase finished and drained his glass; half the bottle gone, a new midday record. He cleared his throat and forced himself to meet Wilson's eyes. "Your turn. What, ah, what'd he say about me?"</p>
<p>Wilson looked unruffled, serene, and not in the least disapproving; it made him itch, and he refilled his glass.</p>
<p>"I can't tell you," Wilson said.</p>
<p>Chase choked, and wine went the wrong way, up his nose instead of down his throat. "But you--" he sputtered. "You said--"</p>
<p>"That he said other things about you. I never said I'd tell you what they were."</p>
<p>"You cunt-lapping fuckstick." It was the filthiest thing he could think of. His face burned like the fiery depths of hell. He was in hell; it was the only explanation.</p>
<p>He never should've left the seminary.</p>
<p>"True," Wilson said. "On both counts, if I'm parsing correctly. We're not really friends, you and me, are we?"</p>
<p>"We sure as hell aren't now," Chase spat, and was momentarily distracted by the arrival of his salad. Pollock, he decided, eyeing the colorful splatters of dressing.</p>
<p>Wilson nodded in acknowledgment of his sirloin-- grilled medium-well; predictable and safe-- then continued, once the waiter had disappeared, "So take what I'm about to say in the spirit it's intended. I'm speaking as his friend, not yours." He paused. "I've learned it's best to clear up any possible misunderstandings right up front."</p>
<p>"Cameron?" Chase asked, wondering if she, too, had gotten The Talk. Wondering if Wilson had dragged her out to lunch too. Wondered if he wrote off these lunches as work-related expenses on his tax returns.</p>
<p>"Isn't relevant," Wilson said. He leaned forward. "Chase, what do you want out of this?"</p>
<p>"Don't know," Chase mumbled into his wine, after a moment. "Not anymore."</p>
<p>"What did you want?"</p>
<p>If he turned any redder, his head would explode. But he answered readily enough; he supposed he couldn't sink any lower in Wilson's eyes. "To keep my job."</p>
<p>"I see," Wilson said, with a small moue of distaste, and he was wrong then; he could sink lower after all.</p>
<p>Then Wilson surprised him. "You're a bright kid, Chase, and a good doctor. You could find work anywhere, and good money at that. More than you're making now. Why are you so wedded to this place?"</p>
<p>"I don't need the money."</p>
<p>"That wasn't the question."</p>
<p>"I don't know."</p>
<p>Wilson sat back, looking dissatisfied. "Well, you'd damn well better figure it out, Chase, because you're the only one who can."</p>
<p>"What do you care about what I want?" Chase retorted.</p>
<p>"Stacey hurt him," Wilson said flatly, the non-segue giving Chase whiplash. "Well, they hurt each other, really, but he got the worst of it. Are you even aware that you're the first person he's slept with in six years?"</p>
<p>He wasn't. He felt victorious. He felt sick.</p>
<p>"And you're definitely the first man he's ever slept with."</p>
<p>It was a punch in the gut, leaving him breathless, gasping. "You're shitting me."</p>
<p>"I am not."</p>
<p>"How can you even know?"</p>
<p>"Because on quite a few memorable occasions, I've gotten him blind drunk." Wilson paused again, seeming to consider this. "Or maybe he got me drunk. It's hard to say. Point is, I know."</p>
<p>"I don't-- he just--" Chase spluttered. "He's so much older than me!"</p>
<p>Wilson was unsympathetic. "If that's a problem for you, maybe you should have thought about it beforehand."</p>
<p>Chase's mouth was dry. He drained the last of his wine glass, ignoring Wilson's disapproving look, and noted with dismay that the bottle was now empty. In a hollow, deadened voice, he asked, "Why are you telling me this?"</p>
<p>"I told you," Wilson said. "He talked about you."</p>
<p>Chase stared.</p>
<p>Wilson tucked the last of his steak in his mouth, then sighed and stood. "Take a couple hours, clear your head. I'll deal with House."</p>
<p>If anyone could, it was Wilson.</p>
<p>Chase lowered his gaze to his untouched salad, prodding at the brightly-colored leaves with his fork. Wilson turned to go, then hesitated and looked back at him.</p>
<p>"Have you talked to your father lately?"</p>
<p>Chase's fingers tightened around the fork. "No."</p>
<p>"You should," Wilson said, and left.</p>
<p>Only when he was out of sight did Chase realize that he'd stuck him with the bill.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After Wilson walked out, Chase polished off another half-bottle of wine, then stepped out, squinting, into the late afternoon sunlight. The lunch had taken a hefty chunk out of his credit card limit, but he still couldn't bring himself to care.</p>
<p>I don't need the money. His answer to everything, he thought with a snort.</p>
<p>He didn't trust himself to drive, so he wandered around downtown until he felt steadier on his feet. By the time he slid behind the steering wheel, numbness was gradually giving way to fury. House had told Wilson about them. Hardly a surprise, and yet the anger sizzled within him like oil on a hot stove. It had been yet another one of those implicit, unspoken rules. No one was supposed to know. Even if there was, technically, nothing there anymore to know about. It wasn't, he thought irrationally, House's tale to tell.</p>
<p>But then, House had never been good at following spoken rules; what made Chase think he'd stick to the other kind any better?</p>
<p>He knew he should return to work. His job wasn't in imminent peril anymore, he didn't think, but that was still no reason to tempt fate.</p>
<p>He drove home instead, flicking House the metaphorical bird every time he stomped on the gas pedal, and made it through the early-afternoon traffic in record time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next morning, Chase was still seething. He woke up early, unable to sleep through the slow burn of anger knotting his guts, and drove to the hospital instead of simmering alone in his apartment for an extra half hour.</p>
<p>He'd half-hoped to find House in his office early; the man was near-psychic at times, and besides, Chase wouldn't put it past Wilson to have filled him in on their little lunchtime debacle. But the office was locked and empty, and Chase spared the darkened room a brief scowl before retreating to the lab and losing himself once more in Janice Loew's bloodwork.</p>
<p>In fact, House was nearly an hour late, and as usual did not deign to explain himself. With one thing and another, Chase didn't get a chance to corner him, alone, until early afternoon.</p>
<p>Once he saw his opportunity-- Foreman off reviewing the latest test results, and Cameron dispatched to press Janice's husband further about her medical history-- Chase stormed in, slammed the door behind him, and snapped, "You told Wilson."</p>
<p>House scowled at the TV, blaring away merrily in the corner, and hit the remote, plunging the screen into darkness. He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Chase. "Let me just take a wild stab in the dark here, and assume you're mad at me about something."</p>
<p>"You told him!" Chase repeated, his voice rising.</p>
<p>House blinked. "That's it?"</p>
<p>"How'd you like it if I told Foreman?" Chase demanded.</p>
<p>"You're gonna be telling Foreman in a minute, you don't remember that glass is not actually soundproof. More's the pity." House paused. "Besides, you don't even like Foreman."</p>
<p>"I don't dislike him," Chase said defensively, lowering his voice and shooting a quick glance over his shoulder; sure enough, Foreman had slipped into the conference room behind him, and was sipping coffee and trying not to look like he was staring at them. Chase glared at him, then deliberately turned his back to the glass.</p>
<p>"Well, he doesn't like you," House said. "Glad that's settled. Are we done here, or do you want me to draw you a flow chart?"</p>
<p>Chase opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.</p>
<p>"We need to talk," he said flatly.</p>
<p>House regarded him with vague horror. "Good God. You do think you're in a soap opera."</p>
<p>Will not kill, will not kill.... "I'm simply trying to communicate on a level I know you'll understand."</p>
<p>"Nice one," House allowed. "I don't suppose you'd like to talk to me about Our Lord and Savior, would you?" He looked as though that would be preferable to the alternative.</p>
<p>"He's not high on my list of priorities right now," Chase forced out between his teeth.</p>
<p>"How far the altar boy has fallen," House said. "Are you sure? I've had quite the yen to read The Watchtower lately."</p>
<p>"There are easier ways to commit suicide than by boring yourself to death."</p>
<p>"I hope you're not trying to tell me something."</p>
<p>"I am trying," Chase said, "to have a mature conversation with you for once."</p>
<p>House narrowed his eyes. "Wild accusations and melodramatic pronouncements? If that's maturity, count me out."</p>
<p>"Already done," Chase said, baring his teeth.</p>
<p>"See what he did there?" House remarked to what Chase could only assume was an imaginary audience; he didn't think the man was quite delusional yet. Unless he was hoping Foreman could lip-read. Or maybe Cuddy was hiding behind the curtain. Too bad he didn't have a sword to test the theory. "He's a card, this one."</p>
<p>Chase dug his nails into his palms and took a deep breath, mentally resetting to the point where the encounter had derailed on him-- the very beginning. "Can we just talk? Please," he added through gritted teeth, when House arched a dubious eyebrow.</p>
<p>House's face abruptly closed, like a door slamming shut, and suddenly Chase didn't have the first clue what he was thinking. It was fascinating, if frustrating, to watch.</p>
<p>"Fine," he said finally. "Not here."</p>
<p>Chase nodded. After all, glass wasn't soundproof.</p>
<p>House's mouth twisted. "Mine or yours? Or neutral ground?"</p>
<p>Chase shrugged. After a moment, when no help was forthcoming, he muttered, "Yours."</p>
<p>It started there; it would end there.</p>
<p>"Fine," House said again. "See you tonight." He snapped the TV back on, signaling a definite end to the conversation.</p>
<p>Chase lingered in the doorway, half-expecting some smart remark to follow him out into the conference room. When House continued to ignore him, and Foreman fixed him with a flat, speculative look, he set his jaw and let the door swing silently shut.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>June</p>
<p>To be perfectly honest, House was also the first man Chase had ever slept with, in every sense of the word. First man he'd ever shared a bed with; first man to ever screw him senseless and leave him gasping.</p>
<p>If there was one thing Chase had learned from American politics, it was that blow jobs didn't count.</p>
<p>So. First time: after another first of many, the first time he'd come crawling back to House with his tail between his legs.</p>
<p>It was a Saturday, so at least he didn't have to worry about being functional at work, or worse, having to look Cameron in the eye. The more he thought about, the more unfair the whole thing seemed-- to her, of course, in a schoolyard kind of way; she wasn't trying to prove a point or anything, she had genuinely Fallen In Love with House and gotten nowhere for her troubles, while all Chase had to do was offer an after-hours blow job-- but also to him; how was he to know House would take him up on it? The man seemed to occupy the nebulous grey area between fervently straight and dismissively asexual; he noticed sex, no doubt about it, but hell, he could've had Cameron and didn't, and privately Chase had wondered whether massive quantities of Vicodin had suppressed his libido entirely. It hardly seemed conceivable that a man with a functioning sex drive would give the adoring Allison Cameron the brush-off, and then two weeks later fall into bed with Robert Chase-- suck-up, turncoat, incipient alcoholic (he gritted his teeth), a Catholic not so much lapsed as utterly failed.</p>
<p>But for whatever reason, he had, and now Chase's world was so askew, he didn't even know which way was up anymore.</p>
<p>Maybe that was the reason.</p>
<p>He hadn't suggested House's place out of concern for the man's leg, or anything like that. His reasons were far more selfish than that-- he wanted to be able to bolt, if need be.</p>
<p>House opened the door with a smug "Just can't stay away, can you?"</p>
<p>Chase wet his lips, testing the mostly-healed cut on the side of his mouth. "Apparently not."</p>
<p>There was an open bottle of scotch on the table, and two empty glasses. Chase pointedly did not take one. House, just as pointedly, did.</p>
<p>Chase perched on the edge of the sofa and stared at his knees.</p>
<p>"So," House said, and sipped his drink. "Should we talk about our feelings now?"</p>
<p>Chase lunged for the bottle. "Give me that."</p>
<p>"It was just a suggestion," House said, smirking and holding the bottle out of reach; Chase glared and sank back down in his seat. "You mean you don't want to know what I think of you?"</p>
<p>"Not at the moment, no." Chase cringed inwardly; he could only imagine.</p>
<p>"Refreshing," House remarked obscurely, and took another sip. "Wanna have sex?"</p>
<p>This time, he let Chase take the bottle.</p>
<p>If House was a novice, as Wilson would later claim, Chase certainly couldn't tell. Not that he had any real basis for comparison. But House kissed expertly and enthusiastically, and his stubble scraped Chase's face; his hands didn't falter on the flat planes of Chase's body, instead digging in hard enough to leave bruises. Chase was dizzy from the first touch, and this he couldn't blame on the alcohol-- he hadn't even finished his first glass. But now he knew how House kissed, and he didn't think he'd be able to stop.</p>
<p>Unfair, his brain whispered, not fair at all-- to any of them: Cameron, sitting home alone; Chase, overwhelmed by sensations he'd convinced himself he didn't really want, and certainly didn't need; and House himself, because what could he possibly be getting out of this? If he'd ever even liked Chase, he certainly didn't now; and yet here he was, tongue in Chase's mouth, hands down the back of his jeans and gripping the curve and swell of flesh, brushing a line right down the middle--</p>
<p>Chase groaned, a low, obscene sound that echoed in the back of his throat, and was promptly swallowed by House's mouth. Not fair to anyone, and least of all him, because he knew what was coming and he couldn't stop if it he wanted to-- and, God help him, he didn't.</p>
<p>House broke away and pulled back, and Chase's eyes popped open at the loss of contact. Too-blue eyes gave him a narrow, searching look. "Sex," House said again, seeming to taste the word in his mouth, and it was part question, part confirmation-- yes, sex; yes, I want it; roger, all systems go.</p>
<p>Chase didn't know when he'd grabbed the front of House's T-shirt, but as his fingers tightened and the fabric stretched between his fingers, he was grateful for the handhold. In a desperate, grating voice he barely even recognized, he growled, "If you're just gonna talk about it--"</p>
<p>"Bite your tongue," House said, then bit it for him.</p>
<p>Again they shed their clothes on the way to the bedroom; Chase wondered if he'd ever get to walk inside while fully dressed. He was dimly, vaguely appreciative of the lack of stairs, and then he was naked on the bed, and House was naked with him, and--</p>
<p>Yeah.</p>
<p>Maybe Cameron wasn't so crazy after all.</p>
<p>Long sparse body, wiry muscles, strength in the arms and legs that hadn't entirely faded in the past six years. Dark curls over the chest and arms and legs, just enough to be disconcerting but not off-putting. And... well, then there was the obvious.</p>
<p>Chase tried not to stare, then gave up and stared. House shifted irritably under his regard.</p>
<p>"If you're just going to look," he said, an almost perfect mimicry of Chase's earlier complaint, but cast in harsh American tones instead. He leaned back against the headboard in a tense, deliberate sprawl; one hand twitched toward his leg, then dropped back again to his side. House thought he was staring at his leg, Chase realized, and now curious, he obliged.</p>
<p>He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't mangled or anything. At first glance, it wasn't even that different from the left. Smaller, of course, weaker and awkward-looking, never quite fully relaxed, probably physically incapable of it... the minute differences were fascinating, more so than a radical disparity would have been, but somehow, at the moment, they couldn't quite hold Chase's attention.</p>
<p>Okay, so-- he narrowed his eyes-- it wasn't that big a deal; he'd had it in his mouth, after all, and if he couldn't deal with that, if he couldn't even look at it, he might as well get up and end this right now. So. Penis, dick, donger-- whatever he wanted to call it, House had one. Not too different from Chase's own; long and slender, like the rest of him, and not much larger or smaller than the rest of Chase's admittedly small sample pool. Circumcised, of course, as most Americans were-- he'd noticed that before; hard to miss. And despite House's irritated glare, it was showing a distinct interest in the proceedings.</p>
<p>"Satisfied?" House snapped, when Chase finally managed to drag his eyes away. Looking, it seemed, wasn't going to be a problem.</p>
<p>"Ease up, would you?" Chase was surprised at the defensive tone in his voice, though not nearly as surprised as he was by the brief flicker of apology on House's face-- brief enough that he wasn't sure it was ever there, and so could safely ignore it. "This is-- it's not easy, all right?"</p>
<p>"Tab A, slot B. Seems fairly straightforward to me."</p>
<p>Chase felt lightheaded; he was fairly certain he'd never been referred to as a slot before. "I'm just saying, I'm not-- I don't--"</p>
<p>"Oh dear," House said, with a look of truly vicious glee, and Chase resisted the urge to slug him, though not by much. He raised a hand to his mouth in mock-horror. "Don't tell me--"</p>
<p>"Fuck off," Chase said, suddenly weary, and started to push himself upright.</p>
<p>House moved with surprising speed, pinning him back down on the mattress, planting his hands on either side of Chase's head. Chase blinked up at him, overcome by sudden vertigo, which did little to dispel his rising annoyance.</p>
<p>"--they let you escape untapped," House continued, as though he'd never even paused; humid breath brushed across Chase's face. "Virginal and pure. It's a good look for you."</p>
<p>"Persuasive argument," Chase said, baring his teeth in a not-quite-smile.</p>
<p>House returned the expression with interest. "Prickly and defensive, even better."</p>
<p>"You are seriously warped."</p>
<p>"Oh, look who's talking. I'm crippled, not insensate."</p>
<p>Sure enough, House wasn't the only one rising to the occasion. Parts of Chase hadn't quite got the memo that he was supposed to be put out. House's thigh shifted against his groin, and electric sparks shot up his spine. He scowled and tried not to bang his skull back against the headboard.</p>
<p>"Oh, what do you want?" House sounded irritated; it was familiar. Comforting. "Flowers and candy? You want me to beg you to stay? Tell you you're pretty?"</p>
<p>"You've done that already," Chase's mouth said, without consulting his brain first.</p>
<p>House blinked. "Flowers?"</p>
<p>"You called me pretty. It was annoying."</p>
<p>"Thank God I haven't lost my touch."</p>
<p>Chase's nails dug into his palms, tense from the effort of not reaching for House. His throat was dry. He wanted to touch, but he didn't have the nerve. Even now, after everything, he couldn't quite see the path from Point A to Point B; couldn't repair the fundamental disconnect between House barking at him in the conference room and House pinning him to the bed and coaxing him into sex. Couldn't envision House coaxing anyone into sex, even with the illustrative example directly above him.</p>
<p>He wondered, not for the first time, whether he'd finally snapped, and it had taken him this long to notice.</p>
<p>House wasn't touchable. He prickled and bristled, and his sharp edges cut the unwary as well as the merely semi-alert. He infringed upon Chase's personal space with ease-- all of their personal spaces; he seemed to take it as his due-- and still Chase couldn't bring himself to return the favor. Such as it was.</p>
<p>"You're thinking again," House accused.</p>
<p>Chase blinked. "I stopped?"</p>
<p>"Frequently. And of all the times to start again--"</p>
<p>"This is a bad idea. A really bad idea."</p>
<p>House made a low, exasperated sound. "Put up or shut up, you paranoid freak. You came here, remember?"</p>
<p>Lord, did he. "I'm just saying--"</p>
<p>"Don't," House said succinctly, and promptly silenced him.</p>
<p>Hands-- once he stopped thinking about it, his hands moved of their own accord, digging into the muscles beneath House's arms and his shoulder blades, feeling them flex in time with the movement above him. He touched, and he didn't get stung. He supposed it was an improvement.</p>
<p>House broke away long enough to say breathlessly, "You wanna get the cuffs, or should I?"</p>
<p>Chase's fingers tightened, digging in deeper, and he was pleased by the minute twitch of House's mouth-- more surprise than pain, anything less than a broken bone probably wouldn't even register over his leg and the muffling effects of the Vicodin, but it was acknowledgment nonetheless. "Rule one," Chase said through gritted teeth. "Drop that shit right now, or I am walking out."</p>
<p>"There are rules now?" House didn't look happy. "Did Vogler play by your little rules too?"</p>
<p>Shit; the V-word. Chase moistened his lips, felt the cut sting in memory. He had to play this carefully. Talking about Vogler was like walking through a fucking minefield-- so many different ways for the conversation to blow up in his face.</p>
<p>"Believe it or not," he said, choosing his words with care, "thinking about Vogler does not actually get me in the mood."</p>
<p>"Really? Makes me kind of want a backrub. Figure that one out."</p>
<p>"I don't do backrubs."</p>
<p>"More's the pity."</p>
<p>Situation defused, at least for now; Chase couldn't feel much relief. As always, the mention of Vogler, the temporary bane of all their existences, had driven the brutal truth home. He couldn't afford to get shirty. He was only here still at House's sufferance; Wilson, he knew, had been pushing for House to fire him since the truth first came out.</p>
<p>He couldn't manage to take it personally. He'd probably want to fire him too.</p>
<p>So he let House flip him over, and he closed his eyes and waited, bracing for the inevitable. When nothing happened, he glanced back over his shoulder.</p>
<p>House was staring at him with a look of consternation that almost made him want to laugh.</p>
<p>"I think," House said, with great dignity, "that this will require some strategic planning."</p>
<p>Right; the leg. It was some small comfort that House apparently hadn't considered it either.</p>
<p>Chase sighed and rolled over onto his back again, watching House beside him from beneath lowered lashes. Something that could either have been relief or dismay bubbled in his stomach. If they couldn't figure it out--</p>
<p>"Ha," House said suddenly, brightening.</p>
<p>Right. House, not figure it out? Fat chance.</p>
<p>And that was definitely apprehension, as House reached for the headboard-- a sliding door affair, Chase realized, with compartments behind the wooden panels-- and withdrew a foil-wrapped condom and a brand new tube of lubricant.</p>
<p>Chase narrowed his eyes. "You stocked up."</p>
<p>"What can I say? I'm an optimist."</p>
<p>The only possible response to that was a snort. Chase obliged.</p>
<p>There was something dangerously sharklike about House's grin, as he stretched out next to Chase and rolled the condom onto himself with deft fingers. He slicked the lube onto the condom, and apprehension became full-blown alarm.</p>
<p>"You can't be serious," Chase protested.</p>
<p>House raised an eyebrow. "You got a better idea?"</p>
<p>Yes, actually, he wanted to say. What was wrong with a blow job, or just a hand job-- or hell, even good old-fashioned friction; suddenly Chase could think of about a hundred ways to have sex that didn't involve... that. At some point in the past five minutes, he'd reconciled himself to getting fucked; he'd never contemplated having to fuck himself.</p>
<p>It was obscene. It was humiliating. It was--</p>
<p>--turning him on to an alarming degree.</p>
<p>"Well, come on," House said, as Chase squirmed and tried to hide his sudden surge of arousal, with what he suspected was something less than total success; and House reached out and slapped his thigh, as one would a recalcitrant horse. "Ride 'em, cowboy."</p>
<p>Torn between helpless laughter and sheer horror, Chase just covered his face with his hands.</p>
<p>Laughter was winning out, and as he started to shake with it, he felt House guiding him up and into position. Amusement left him loose-limbed and relaxed, and he eyed House with grudging respect as he knelt over the man's hips on barely-trembling legs. Clever bastard. Too fucking clever. Chase would never have the upper hand here, he realized, and the knowledge was like a stone dropping into his stomach. He brushed the thought aside as quickly as he could; he didn't think he could take it in right now. Probably never, but definitely not now, not like this--</p>
<p>--and Chase lowered himself down slowly, onto the waiting, pulsing heat, and then he wasn't thinking about much at all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Well," House said later, with a grating degree of satisfaction. "That was different."</p>
<p>Chase just grunted into the pillow and attempted to will his heartbeat back down to normal.</p>
<p>Way past satisfaction, edging dangerously into smugness: "Work tomorrow should be fun."</p>
<p>"Tomorrow's Sunday," Chase mumbled into the soft-washed cotton.</p>
<p>"Oh," House said. "Damn."</p>
<p>Chase squeezed his eyes shut and buried deeper into the covers, trying to ignore the pulsing awareness in his arse that wasn't exactly pain, not really, and ignoring even more the lingering sated sensation in his limbs. Fun. God. What was he letting himself in for?</p>
<p>And why, at that moment, couldn't he muster the resources to care?</p>
<p>"Nice tattoo," House said.</p>
<p>"Shut up," Chase told the pillow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>September</p>
<p>"Wilson," House greeted him at the door that night, "has been a very naughty boy." Despite his words, he looked more tired and annoyed than amused.</p>
<p>"No argument here," Chase said.</p>
<p>They stared at each other for a moment. Then House stepped back and said, "Come in," just as Chase thrust the brown-paper-wrapped package towards him and blurted out, "Here."</p>
<p>House transferred his stare to the package and made no move to take it.</p>
<p>"It's alcoholic," Chase added, and sure enough, that did the trick. House snatched the bottle from his hands and retreated from the doorway, clutching his prize.</p>
<p>Chase followed, closing the door behind him without a word.</p>
<p>Silence reigned until they were both seated in the living room, scotch glasses in hand. House had given a surprised grunt when he saw the label, but didn't comment otherwise. Chase, nevertheless, felt absurdly vindicated; he didn't know House's favorite brand, but he did know which of his bottles House always opened when they were at his apartment.</p>
<p>The bottle had cost almost two hundred bucks. He hoped House appreciated it.</p>
<p>"So," House said finally, settling back in his easy chair and pausing to drain half the glass in a single gulp. "You wanted to talk, so talk."</p>
<p>Chase took a deep breath and realized, with vague panic, that he had no idea where to start.</p>
<p>House glanced pointedly at his watch.</p>
<p>Might as well start with the general and all-encompassing. "What happened?"</p>
<p>House gave him a long, cool look. "Well," he said dryly, "in the beginning--"</p>
<p>"More recent," Chase snapped, unamused. "Try three months ago."</p>
<p>"That's jumping ahead a bit, isn't it?" House's eyes gleamed with an unsettling light. "Tell the truth, now. If this started as just a rebound thing from Vogler--"</p>
<p>"Or maybe," Chase said, "it started with you sticking your fucking nose into my business with my father."</p>
<p>"Now I need a flow chart," House said.</p>
<p>Chase closed his eyes. "House--"</p>
<p>"It started," House interrupted, and Chase braced himself for a long, pontificating speech, "when Daddy walked out-- oh, don't give me that look, you brought him up-- when Daddy walked out on you and left you with a big, stern, father-figure-shaped void in your life. You still crave paternal approval, but you've given up on ever getting it from the senior Dr. Chase. You tried God, but that didn't work either. You flew all the way across the Atlantic--"</p>
<p>"Pacific."</p>
<p>"--and beached upon the august Jersey shore-- yes, but then I don't get to say 'shore'-- where you found a bitter, crippled, abusive man who seemed to fit the bill, which, by the way, says a lot more about your relationship with your father than I'm really comfortable with."</p>
<p>Chase gripped the glass so tightly he thought it might break. "Really," he managed to say.</p>
<p>"No, that's a lie. I'm perfectly comfortable with it."</p>
<p>"Is this going somewhere, or do you just like to watch me squirm?"</p>
<p>"Can't I do both? Where was I?"</p>
<p>"The utter bastard who hired me."</p>
<p>"Ah yes, him. Oh, but I've glossed over your career in the S&amp;M scene, haven't I?"</p>
<p>"Please feel free to continue glossing."</p>
<p>"Nonsense. I would never do you such a disservice."</p>
<p>Chase scowled, at a loss for a witty retort.</p>
<p>"You tried the daddy role yourself for a while," House began, and Chase felt compelled to object again.</p>
<p>"I was never anybody's 'daddy'."</p>
<p>"Well," House said, "you certainly weren't very good at it. But you remembered Annette, didn't you? She obviously made an impression."</p>
<p>"She's an impressive woman."</p>
<p>"Not to everyone's taste, granted, but certainly yours. How about it, Chase, you ever been tied up in that basement of hers?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Probably wanted to, though, right? From the collar to the cock ring. Hard transition, isn't it?"</p>
<p>"Congratulations," Chase said through gritted teeth, "I'm fully humiliated. Can we move on?"</p>
<p>House narrowed his eyes, giving Chase a long, speculative head-to-toe stare; Chase tried not to squirm again. "You intrigue me, Chase. I obviously get to you, but you just sit there and take it." Not always, Chase thought, remembering the catharsis of vocal hatred, but House wasn't done. "Let's add masochist to the list, shall we?"</p>
<p>Chase ignored the dig. "Is that why you're sleeping with me? Because I intrigue you?"</p>
<p>"No, I screwed you because you intrigued me. I slept with you because I was too tired to kick your ass out of bed afterwards. And in case you missed my cunning use of the past tense, might I remind you that I am no longer doing either." House barely paused for breath. "Now no fair jumping ahead, I haven't even gotten to Santa Claus yet."</p>
<p>"Santa Claus," Chase echoed.</p>
<p>"He giveth, he taketh away. Isn't that how it goes?"</p>
<p>"I fear your childhood."</p>
<p>"And I fear yours," House said, deadly serious.</p>
<p>Chase swallowed and didn't respond.</p>
<p>"But let's not get personal."</p>
<p>"You've been personal," Chase ground out.</p>
<p>"Fine, so I fail. You just don't want me to talk about Vogler."</p>
<p>"Nobody wants anyone to talk about Vogler. Nobody except you wants to talk about Vogler."</p>
<p>"Oh, come on," House said. He grinned, his scotch half-empty and forgotten on the coffee table. "Who doesn't like picking at scabs?"</p>
<p>In response, Chase poured himself another glass.</p>
<p>"Watch it," House said. "That's the good stuff there."</p>
<p>Chase wrapped his middle finger pointedly around the glass.</p>
<p>House snorted. "Fine, we'll do the Spark Notes version. I pissed you off, Vogler came along, you grafted yourself to a new father figure. One, by the way, who was way more disturbing than me."</p>
<p>"Noted," Chase mumbled into his scotch. His head was spinning, and he was only on his second glass. This was not how he'd expected the conversation to go.</p>
<p>He supposed a mutually respectful parting of ways had been too much to hope for.</p>
<p>House, it seemed, was nowhere near done, and his voice was really starting to grate. "But that didn't work out so well, did it? So Vogler's out, and you're stuck with little old me again. Except I'm not buying the worshipful protégé act anymore--"</p>
<p>"It wasn't an act--"</p>
<p>"Then that's just sad. And you, my boy, had to step up the game."</p>
<p>"And?" Chase forced out, through stiff, bloodless lips.</p>
<p>"And what? And you sucked my dick, and the rest was X-rated history. You asked what happened, I told you."</p>
<p>"That's it?" Chase demanded, amused despite himself. "You think I, what, ravished you because I crave you approval?"</p>
<p>"No, I think you, what, ravished me because you wanted to keep your job, and I think you wanted to keep your job because you crave my approval. Isn't that what you told Wilson?"</p>
<p>Chase's face flamed. "That fucker. He won't tell me what you said about me, and all the time he was probably recording our conversation for you."</p>
<p>"My friend," House said, "not yours. And recording your conversation would be illegal. Relaying the juicy tidbits, however, is not."</p>
<p>"And where the hell were you in all of this? Clearly you're not a passive virgin waiting to be seduced, or Cameron would've been a hell of a lot happier that morning after."</p>
<p>"And me screwing Cameron would make me a virgin?"</p>
<p>"You know what I mean!"</p>
<p>"I'm not entirely convinced of that."</p>
<p>Chase took a deep breath and managed to pry his teeth apart. "You're claiming I took advantage of you."</p>
<p>"No," House corrected, "I'm saying you threw yourself at me. I took you up on it, and I shouldn't have."</p>
<p>"Is that an actual apology?"</p>
<p>"If it'll make you happy, sure."</p>
<p>Chase snorted. "What do you care if I'm happy?"</p>
<p>The sudden burning heat in House's eyes nearly made him swallow his tongue. "I have spent the whole week trying to make you happy," House growled.</p>
<p>"Excuse me?" Chase demanded in disbelief.</p>
<p>"You dumbass, what did you think was going on?" House slammed back the last of his scotch and set down the glass so hard, Chase was afraid it would shatter.</p>
<p>"More punishment," he said numbly, ignoring the little voice that pointed out, no, he hadn't thought that was all there was to it; no reason, now, to give House the benefit of the doubt. "You were ignoring me."</p>
<p>House rolled his eyes. "So when I make fun of you, I'm tormenting you, and when I don't, I'm ignoring you. What do you want me to do, take up mime?"</p>
<p>"There's a vast middle ground between giving me the cold shoulder and sending me to root through somebody's trash!"</p>
<p>"Whatever," House said, dismissing the point with a half-shrug. He leaned forward and refilled his glass. "I'm a bad, bad man. I admit it. We've talked. Satisfied?"</p>
<p>"Not quite the word for it," Chase snapped.</p>
<p>"Well, I suggest you get the hell over it and get to finding yourself a new daddy to discipline you properly."</p>
<p>"That's it," Chase said with wonder, storing this latest dig away in his memory for future vengeance-related purposes. "You don't have anything else to say to me?"</p>
<p>House regarded him over the rim of his glass with hooded eyes. "I'd hurry if I were you. No telling when Version 1.0's going to kick it."</p>
<p>Chase stared at him, turning the words over in his head. No matter from what direction he looked at them, they didn't make any sense. Unless....</p>
<p>"What?" he asked finally.</p>
<p>House froze, then carefully arranged his features into an expression of perfect innocence. "What what?"</p>
<p>It would almost be funny, if Chase weren't so close to seeing red.</p>
<p>Very carefully, he asked, "What did you just say?"</p>
<p>"Oh," House said after a moment. "That." He set the glass down and made an apologetic face; if Chase didn't know better; he'd almost thing it was genuine. "Ah, your father's dying. Did I forget to mention it?"</p>
<p>Chase punched him.</p>
<p>It was an awkward blow, seated as they both were, with no real force behind it, and he ended up half-sprawled across the easy chair, his fingers aching from the contact. Chase leapt to his feet immediately, but House made no move to follow suit. He touched two fingers to the angry red mark beneath his left cheekbone, then reached with the same hand for his abandoned glass.</p>
<p>He didn't say another word, but Chase felt the heavy, burning weight of his gaze all the way to the front door, where he grabbed his jacket and stormed out, slamming it shut behind him.</p>
<p>Then promptly halted, greeted by the sight of Foreman lounging against a dark gray Acura that hadn't been in the driveway when Chase arrived.</p>
<p>"Told you I'd find out," Foreman said, as Chase gaped.</p>
<p>His head spun with disconnected memories; House's voice grated in his ears. Your father's dying... I have spent the whole week trying to make you happy... Virginal and pure, it's a good look for you. He couldn't think of a single thing to say that wouldn't end with him and Foreman coming to blows. His knuckles still stung.</p>
<p>Oh God, he'd just punched his boss.</p>
<p>His father was dying.</p>
<p>Have you talked to your father lately?</p>
<p>And Wilson knew. Wilson fucking knew.</p>
<p>Wilson fucking knew everything, it seemed.</p>
<p>Something in Foreman's expression altered almost imperceptibly. "Hey, man, you okay?"</p>
<p>Chase found his voice.</p>
<p>"My father's dying," he accused. Did Foreman know too? God, did everybody?</p>
<p>Annoyance flashed across Foreman's face, replaced quickly by confusion and not a little sympathy. "Uh. Sorry?"</p>
<p>Chase fumbled in his pockets for his keys; his hands were shaking. "I gotta-- I have to go now-- I just--"</p>
<p>Quick, catlike movement, and then Foreman was in front of him, gripping his shoulders and leaning in to sniff his breath. Chase recoiled automatically, hyperaware of the pressure of Foreman's fingers through his leather jacket. "You been drinking?"</p>
<p>Not nearly enough; he was barely even buzzed. Chase jerked away again, and this time Foreman released him. "What d'you care?"</p>
<p>"You're not driving like that."</p>
<p>Chase took another step back, and felt cool brick through his clothes. He sagged against the wall and closed his eyes. House was just on the other side of the wall. Finishing off the bottle, maybe. Washing down a Vicodin with the last mouthful, flipping through the late-night programs, never mind he'd just shattered Chase's entire world.</p>
<p>Never mind anything he'd ever done to Chase. And God, was the list long.</p>
<p>"He knew," he whispered, unaware and uncaring whether Foreman was even still there, still paying attention to him. "The bastard knew, all this time."</p>
<p>A light touch on his shoulder this time, and he opened his eyes and stared into Foreman's face. A dark face in more ways than one-- impenetrable, inscrutable, with endless warm brown eyes and smooth, unlined skin; so unlike House's mobile, time-worn features, his startling blue eyes, and yet Chase felt himself melting as their gazes locked.</p>
<p>Jesus. He couldn't be thinking this, not now. Not when he felt that manic desperation settling in his limbs again, making him anxious and twitchy. He wanted to call Sydney; he never wanted to talk to his father again. He wanted to get so drunk he couldn't see straight. He wanted to get another tattoo, or maybe pierce something. Socially acceptable pain.</p>
<p>He wanted... other things.</p>
<p>"Come on," Foreman said, giving his shoulder what was meant to be a comforting squeeze, and was actually anything but. "I'll drive you."</p>
<p>Not drunk, he thought, I'm not, but he doubted Foreman would believe him. Still, he worked his mouth for a few seconds before he could remember how to produce words. "Don't," he managed, "you can't," it's dangerous....</p>
<p>A muscle in Foreman's jaw twitched. "Ungrateful ass," he muttered. "Come on. I'm saving you from yourself, whether you like it or not." Voice of authority.</p>
<p>Chase resented authority. Resented it, because he was hard-wired to respond to it.</p>
<p>Voice of authority, and he followed Foreman docilely to the Acura without another word. Even the car didn't tell him much about the man who drove it. High end, good quality without being showy-- depressingly predictable, and yet he felt it said something important, something he was in no condition to grasp. Foreman was a cipher. Chase had thought he'd had him pegged early on, but after a year working with the man, he'd come to realize he didn't have a clue.</p>
<p>The rage had drained as quickly as it had come, leaving him weak and shocky. He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, lulled by the purr of the engine. Foreman drove smoothly and competently, like he did everything else, and only when he slowed to a stop in front of Chase's apartment building did it occur to him to wonder how Foreman knew where he lived.</p>
<p>No matter; he was home, and that was all that mattered. And carless-- he'd have to get up early the next morning to take the bus to House's place. But in the meantime, it would prevent him from doing anything... well. Anything regrettable.</p>
<p>Almost anything.</p>
<p>He always did tend to act without completely thinking through his plans.</p>
<p>In this case, however, an ounce of prevention would go a long way, and for once it was relatively easy to apply. He could see Foreman hesitating, wondering whether to come up with him, and settled the question before it was asked by stepping out of the car with as much dignity as he could muster.</p>
<p>"Thanks," he said, barely recognizing his own voice. "For the ride. Um, see you tomorrow."</p>
<p>Uncertainty flashed in Foreman's eyes. "Right," was all he said, and God, it would be so easy, just get back into the car, lean in...</p>
<p>...probably get punched in the face.</p>
<p>His knuckles throbbed in memory-- quite enough punching tonight already, thank you-- and he slammed the door and made for the building as quickly as he could without breaking into a flat-out sprint.</p>
<p>The Acura was still there, idling at the curb, when he reached the sanctuary of his apartment and glanced out the window. Chase scowled and flipped on the lights, and saw the brake lights disappear as the car pulled slowly away into the sparse traffic. Foreman had waited until he saw Chase was safely inside.</p>
<p>Patronizing ass.</p>
<p>It was definitely time to break out the vodka.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next morning, House walked in, announced, "Acute inflammatory demyelinating polyradiculoneuropathy," and walked back out again.</p><p>Chase, Cameron, and Foreman stared after him.</p><p>"That's it?" Foreman asked finally. "You think--"</p><p>"You tell us," Cameron said. "You're the neurologist."</p><p>"It fits," Foreman allowed, with some reluctance.</p><p>Chase stood, ignoring them, his eyes still fixed on the glass door to the hallway. House had vanished; not into his office, they'd see him through the connecting door. Which meant he could be hiding in any one of a number of places.</p><p>"Where are you going?" Foreman demanded.</p><p>"It's polyneuropathy," he said, still not looking at them.</p><p>"So we need to confirm, we need to start treating Janice--"</p><p>"I'm coming back," Chase said, annoyed.</p><p>"You didn't yesterday," Foreman said.</p><p>Yes, well. A lot of things had happened yesterday, and Chase felt ill-equipped to deal with any of them at the moment. He hadn't slept at all the previous night, too tense from the effort of not picking up the phone and dialing, and had eventually given up sometime after four and taken a cab across town to rescue his car. After that, it was the fear of Foreman's reaction the next day-- that day, now-- that kept him awake and staring at the ceiling. As a result, he felt, simply put, like shit on toast.</p><p>He was relieved, and mildly amazed, that Foreman had made no mention yet of their late-night encounter. The man had no use for secrets, and seemed to enjoy bursting his coworkers' self-delusional bubbles.</p><p>But if he didn't plan to bring it up, Chase sure as hell wasn't going to either. "Fine," was all he said, as evenly as he could manage. "So report me to the headmaster. In the meantime, I will be back."</p><p>He finally glanced back, and suppressed a sigh; if Foreman's eyes narrowed any further, they'd be welded shut. Foreman opened his mouth, and Chase braced himself. Then Foreman hesitated, cutting a sideways look at Cameron, who was staring back and forth between them like a spectator at a tennis match, and suddenly Chase understood.</p><p>Foreman wasn't saying anything, not out of concern for Chase's delicate sensibilities, but because he was trying to spare Cameron's feelings.</p><p>Which meant he had a pretty damn good idea what was going on after all.</p><p>Chase felt his stomach tighten, felt his guts slide down into his fashionably expensive leather shoes, as he realized that the future of his career now rested squarely in the hands of a man who, truth told, really didn't like him all that much.</p><p>He spared a brief moment to wonder why he didn't care as much as he'd thought he would, then narrowed his own eyes in response and stalked out.</p><p>"God," he heard Cameron say, as the door swung shut behind him. "Get a room, you two."</p><p>Chase was thankfully spared Foreman's reply, and wondered if it was a bad sign that his ears were already burning.</p><p> </p><p>House was not in the clinic, the chapel, the obstetrics lounge, or any of the men's rooms. Finally, on a hunch, Chase hiked up the stairs to the oncology lounge-- too impatient to wait for the elevator, and anyway too restless to stand still-- and found House fiddling happily with the TiVo, looking far too pleased with himself.</p><p>Then he glanced up, saw Chase, and immediately looked less pleased. "What the hell are you doing here?"</p><p>Chase's voice was low, quiet, and far steadier than he'd expected. "How long have you known?"</p><p>House's brows lowered, and Chase fancied he could see the man consider and discard several responses-- snide, patronizing, deliberately obtuse-- before settling for a simple, soft, "Since March."</p><p>Chase sucked air into suddenly tightening lungs. "How long has Wilson known?"</p><p>"He's treating him."</p><p>Cancer. No surprise, really; all Chase's childhood memories of his father were wreathed in clouds of pungent cigar smoke. And of course it figured, then, that House would know. The two of them gossiped worse than high school girls.</p><p>"He didn't tell me," House added, doing that scary semi-psychic thing he did sometimes. "I worked it out all by myself. And me not even related to the man."</p><p>Chase gritted his teeth, forced himself to speak evenly. "What should I do?"</p><p>"Not my place to say."</p><p>"Like that's ever stopped you before."</p><p>House shrugged expansively, his eyes still fixed on the TV screen. "He'll be dead in a few months. A year if he's lucky. If you want to carry your grudge to his grave, be my guest."</p><p>So fucking simple. Black and white, just like that. Black and white, and he was seriously starting to see red.</p><p>"Turn that fucking thing off," he said, in a low growl he barely recognized as his.</p><p>House shot him a quick, almost-surprised look, then slowly and deliberately turned off the television. "How very forceful of you. I'm all a-twitter."</p><p>It was the perfect time to bring up Wilson's other little revelation, wipe the superior look right off that smirking face. Chase opened his mouth, then stopped, quailing before House's arched eyebrow.</p><p>The words just wouldn't come.</p><p>It was, he thought, too big to contemplate. That he was House's first-- God, it seemed so ridiculous. So dangerously humanizing. It was, for once, knowledge he didn't want to have.</p><p>But that didn't mean he couldn't still puncture the smugness a little. "Foreman knows," he said flatly.</p><p>It was surprisingly gratifying to see House looking utterly gobsmacked for once. Or maybe it wasn't quite so surprising. He recovered quickly, though, and narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me--"</p><p>"No, I did not bare my soul to him in a touching heart-to-heart." The very thought made him shudder. "He was waiting outside. Last night." Chase swallowed, forcing the words out. "At yours."</p><p>"Thank you, I already deduced that from the look of stark terror on your face." Then he took a closer look. "Lord, Chase, you didn't--"</p><p>"Jesus Christ," he spat, before he could stop himself. "Who d'you think I am?"</p><p>"He can't help you now. Maybe once upon a time--" Then House clocked his expression and raised a placating hand. "Hey, you wanna screw your way through the whole hospital, no skin off my back."</p><p>"Don't tempt me," Chase snarled.</p><p>House cocked his head, considering. "What, the screwing or the flaying?"</p><p>Chase bared his teeth in something almost like a smile.</p><p>"Go," House said, after a long silence. "Get back to work. You have tests to run. I assume Foreman isn't going to just blindly accept my diagnosis?" he added, at Chase's questioning look. "Well, I'll be disappointed if he did. I'll deal with this later."</p><p>Chase snorted. "You'll deal with him?"</p><p>"I'll give him threatening looks. He'll break eventually." House smirked. "You did."</p><p>He didn't trust himself to respond to that, so he just walked away without a backwards glance.</p><p> </p><p>June</p><p>The second morning after was considerably more amicable than the first. Chase didn't even panic this time. He carefully extracted the pillowcase from between his teeth, scrubbed for a moment at the saliva stain with the back of his hand, and in short order had risen and followed the enticing scent of coffee and bacon out into the kitchen.</p><p>House did a double-take when he saw him, dropping the spatula with a clatter. "Son of a-- warn a guy next time, would you?"</p><p>Chase blinked, uncertain whether to be offended or not. "Excuse me?"</p><p>"I'm old," House said, reclaiming the spatula from the floor and scooping the sizzling strips of bacon onto a plate. "I have a sensitive heart. You didn't see that, by the way."</p><p>"Fried strips of pig fat might not be the best thing for a dodgy ticker."</p><p>"Is that your considered medical opinion? I was told it's the breakfast of champions." House snapped off the burner and sucked indelicately at his fingers; Chase found himself riveted at the sight. "But if you persist on parading that ass around first thing in the morning--"</p><p>"Yes?" Chase said testily, bracing for insult.</p><p>House's eyes darkened, and his voice dropped. "Well. I can't be held responsible for my actions, is all I'm saying."</p><p>He wasn't flattered, he told himself; that would be stupid. "I figured we're a bit past modesty at this point."</p><p>"Really?" House looked dubious, and not a little amused. "Figured all you needed was a dick up the ass to fuck the blushing virgin out of you. Oh, wait," he added, grinning as Chase felt his face start to burn, right on cue. "There it goes again. Short-lived remedy. Perhaps another dose?"</p><p>Chase snorted to cover his embarrassment. "And that's your considered medical opinion?"</p><p>House set the plate of bacon aside and started to back Chase against the kitchen counter. Chase let him, well aware that it was up to him; that he could, at least, easily outrun House if he wanted.</p><p>He didn't want.</p><p>If asked, Chase certainly would never have considered himself a blushing virgin-- at least not with women, though one particular humiliating incident with Cameron was still too fresh in his mind for him to completely convince himself. Residual hang-ups left over from the Church, he suspected. But he was far from inexperienced, and an impressive string of nurses, two anesthesiologists, innumerable club girls, and a certain banker with a burn fetish could well attest to that fact.</p><p>Yet something about House made him feel fourteen all over again. He wasn't sure if it was the guy thing-- which hadn't so much snuck up on him as bitch-slapped him to attention when it got tired of waiting to be noticed-- or the boss thing, or the House-being-a-total-domineering-arsehole thing; but every time House touched him, his tongue tied, he blushed like a schoolgirl, and all those residual hang-ups came screaming to the fore.</p><p>And he was bloody sick and tired of it. He'd chosen this; under duress, maybe, but it had been his choice. And after last night especially, if House didn't like him at least a little, the man had bigger hang-ups than he ever did.</p><p>So he let House crowd him against the counter, let the permanent morning stubble scrape against his skin as House's mouth found the junction of throat and jaw. And then, feeling daring, he reached up and buried his hands in House's thinning hair, even going so far as to give a gentle tug.</p><p>If the soft growl against his throat was any indication, House approved.</p><p> </p><p>"What's going on with you and Cameron, anyway?" Chase asked, much later, after they had once again made their way to the bedroom for the duration.</p><p>He felt House tense against him, then the shift of the mattress as he rolled onto his back with an irritable huff. "Where the hell did you learn your pillow talk? Your execution is atrocious. I am totally not impressed."</p><p>Chase stared at the ceiling, fighting the instinctive urge to back down. It wasn't an urge he'd felt much before the previous month; he'd always been confident of his ability to stand calmly in the face of House's withering scorn. Obviously, the landscape had radically altered at some point.</p><p>Yeah. Some point.</p><p>"You obviously like the girl," he pressed, before he lost his nerve. "Enough to agree to that ridiculous date, at least."</p><p>"What would you know about it?"</p><p>"So enlighten me."</p><p>House's voice was a little too sharp, a little too glib. "If this is your preferred form of masochism, I'm disappointed. I thought you were more interesting than that."</p><p>At that, Chase turned his head. House was watching him with fierce, glittering eyes, almost daring him to push the issue. He opened his mouth and heard himself ask, "You think I'm interesting?"</p><p>Nice, Robbie. Very fucking cool.</p><p>"Less and less," House said, "the more I get to know you."</p><p>It was an automatic answer, lacking his usual bite. Chase pressed his advantage. "If you're not interested sexually--"</p><p>"You wish."</p><p>He expected more resistance, and was surprised when House heaved a resigned sigh.</p><p>"She's too nice," he said. "Too good. She wants to heal me." The disdain in his voice was palpable. The disappointment was harder to detect.</p><p>"And I'm not." It wasn't a question.</p><p>"Hardly," House said, baring his teeth.</p><p>He wasn't surprised. He kind of wished he was.</p><p>House rolled over, giving Chase an unobstructed, unsettlingly tantalizing view of the shift of long muscles in his back. "Let that be a lesson. Don't ask questions you don't want answered."</p><p>"You," Chase told his back, "are utterly fucked-up."</p><p>"I defer to the master."</p><p>Chase looked at the ceiling again and sighed.</p><p>"Think the bacon's cold?" he asked finally.</p><p>"No idea. Let's check if the laws of thermodynamics still apply, shall we?"</p><p>"You're still an arsehole. I'm pretty sure Hell hasn't frozen over yet."</p><p>"Don't be too sure," House muttered under his breath.</p><p> </p><p>July</p><p>The fragile truce held for another three weeks, during which Chase spent almost every night with House. He never mentioned Cameron, and House never mentioned Vogler; and sometimes, when they were drinking beer and watching Hank Wiggins play, and House was trying to explain to Chase why he should give a shit about baseball in the first place, Chase could almost fool himself into thinking it was a normal relationship.</p><p>He should have known it wouldn't last. This time, however, it wasn't House's fault. It was his ex's.</p><p>Chase had managed to avoid Stacey Warner for over a month; as long as he didn't fuck up another medical procedure, or commit any similar offense, there was really no reason for their paths to cross. In fact, he'd almost managed to forget she was still there.</p><p>"Dr. Chase," she said, nodding as she stepped onto the elevator with him.</p><p>So much for blissful ignorance.</p><p>Chase kept his eyes fixed on the doors and concentrated on breathing normally. Stacey was similarly silent until the LCD 3 became a 4, then asked abruptly, "How's Greg doing?"</p><p>Chase managed not to twitch. "How's he ever?" he responded-- the safest, vaguest answer he could muster.</p><p>"Usually? Crankier." She shrugged at his quizzical look. "We talked yesterday. He seemed-- I don't know, happy almost. Sounds crazy, I know, but...." She trailed off.</p><p>"It's the drugs talking." 4 became 5 became 6, and finally the elevator doors dinged open. Chase cast the hallway beyond a longing look, wishing he had the balls to walk away mid-conversation.</p><p>"You think so?"</p><p>And what was with everyone thinking he was House's fucking mood ring? "Why don't you ask Cameron," he snapped. "She's the one who watches him like a hawk."</p><p>Stacey regarded him with cool, unblinking eyes. "Is she?"</p><p>Perfectly polite, perfectly neutral, with not a hint of insinuation coloring her voice-- but was that a speculative gleam in her eye, a knowing twist to her lips? The hairs on the back of Chase's neck stood up. Paranoid to the last.</p><p>"I gotta go," he said, and fled the elevator to relative safety.</p><p> </p><p>That night, Chase paced, drank, and paced some more. When he saw that ridiculous Corvette approaching in the street below, he ran and hovered behind the door, yanking it open before House had a chance to knock.</p><p>"I can't do this," he announced.</p><p>House blinked at him, closed fist still held aloft. "Okay," he said, and turned and limped back down the hallway.</p><p>Chase stared after him, but he didn't look back once.</p><p> </p><p>"Watch it," Foreman warned, when he walked in the next day. "He's in a mood today."</p><p>Chase sank down in his seat with a sigh. "Big surprise," he muttered.</p><p>"He's been kind of weird lately, hasn't he?"</p><p>Chase felt his spine stiffen. "How so?"</p><p>Foreman cocked his head, seeming to consider the question. "I don't know, kind of... bipolar. Like he'll be nice one day-- well, as nice as he ever gets-- and spit fire the next."</p><p>"Can't say I've noticed." Even as he spoke the glib lie, Chase's heart sank. Show of hands, everyone: who thinks his moods correspond to whether or not he's gotten laid?</p><p>"Come to think of it," Foreman said, narrowing his eyes, "you've been weird lately too."</p><p>Heart leaping back up into his throat, bypassing his chest entirely: "Really?" At this rate, the organ ought to get frequent flyer miles.</p><p>He was saved from Foreman's response by Cameron's timely arrival. "Morning," she chirped, striding into the room.</p><p>"Cameron," Foreman said, still staring at Chase, "don't you think Chase has been acting weird?"</p><p>Under her considered scrutiny, Chase sunk further down in his chair.</p><p>"How can you tell?" Cameron asked finally.</p><p>"Ha ha," Chase said, with relief.</p><p>Foreman, unfortunately, wasn't letting go quite so easily. "Jumpy," he said, standing and crossing to the whiteboard, where he neatly printed the word at the top.</p><p>"Oh, come on--"</p><p>"Snappish," Cameron contributed.</p><p>"Thank you so much."</p><p>Foreman grinned. "Scared of House."</p><p>"I am not--"</p><p>"Please," Cameron said. "You turn white every time he talks to you."</p><p>"Better than turning red," he snapped, even as his own face flushed.</p><p>Cameron narrowed her eyes. "Did I say snappish?"</p><p>"You did," Foreman confirmed.</p><p>"And he's getting laid. Regularly."</p><p>Chase shot out of his chair. "Hey now--"</p><p>"You glow," Cameron said, as though it were obvious. Then she frowned. "Not today, though."</p><p>Foreman rested his chin thoughtfully on his hand. "It's someone here. Someone House wouldn't approve of."</p><p>"Like I need him to approve who I sleep with!"</p><p>"So there is someone," Cameron said, with a triumphant grin.</p><p>"I never--"</p><p>"Wilson?" Foreman suggested, and Chase choked on his own tongue. So close, yet so far....</p><p>He sputtered for a few moments before finding his voice again. "You don't-- why would you even--"</p><p>Cameron raised an eyebrow. "With those shirts?"</p><p>"I'm not--"</p><p>"Uh-huh," Foreman said.</p><p>He turned to Cameron beseechingly. "You know I'm not!"</p><p>"I know you think you're not," she said smugly. "Denial, probably."</p><p>"For fuck's sake--"</p><p>"Unless," Foreman interrupted, drumming his fingers against his chin. His eyes were wide, and very dark.</p><p>"Unless what?" Cameron asked, as Chase scowled and tried to will himself invisible.</p><p>Foreman waggled his eyebrows. "House is in a mood today. You don't think...?"</p><p>Cold dread settled in his stomach like lead. For the first time in his life, Chase seriously wanted to throttle another human being.</p><p>Cameron made a sound that was half-giggle, half-snort. "Yeah, that'll be the day."</p><p>Chase sank back down in his chair, rubbery-legged with relief, and almost missed Foreman's thoughtful frown.</p><p>"Well, well, well," came the familiar loud, grating voice from the doorway. Chase twisted around; House was staring at the "symptoms" on the whiteboard, a calculating gleam in his eyes. "Looks like someone's been doing something he shouldn't be. Or is that doing someone?"</p><p>Cameron beamed. "We're diagnosing Chase," she informed him.</p><p>"Badly," Chase said under his breath.</p><p>House eyed the whiteboard with distaste. "Drinks too much, sleeps around, daddy issues out the ass. You think we can concentrate on our actual patients now?"</p><p>Chase kept his head down, letting his hair shield his expression. Yeah, he thought, with a surprising amount of bitterness, definitely too good to last.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>September</p><p>House dropped by the lab later in the afternoon with a pointed "Dr. Foreman, I need you for a consult," and Chase kept his face pressed to the eyepiece of the microscope and ignored the heavy gaze on the back of his neck.</p><p>He wondered which of them was staring at him. Or maybe both were. Too bad Cameron was busy setting up the IVIg and plasmapheresis IVs; he could have collected the whole set.</p><p>Finally Foreman said, "Fine," sounding dangerously amused, and followed House out the door. After they left, Chase waited exactly two minutes before slipping out for a coffee break.</p><p>He loitered in the conference room and tried not to look like he was trying to lip-read through the glass door. It didn't seem like House was yelling, but Chase couldn't see his face, which was seriously hindering the whole lip-reading attempt.</p><p>If it wasn't the longest coffee break he'd ever taken, it certainly felt that way.</p><p>When Foreman turned and headed for the door, he still looked a lot more amused than intimidated, and House looked rather more peeved than Chase expected he'd admit to later. Then Chase realized that Foreman was headed not for the hallway, but rather straight for him, and he was seized by the sudden unmanly desire to flee.</p><p>He didn't get much past the stage of pondering whether to put down his coffee cup, or take it with him, before the door swung open.</p><p>Momentarily thwarted, Chase gripped the mug tightly and braced himself.</p><p>Foreman let the door swing shut behind him, then just stood there for a minute, giving Chase a long, knowing, head-to-toe look. Chase put on his blackest glare and tried to placate himself with happy thoughts of Foreman's mangled corpse.</p><p>Finally Foreman just shook his head and said, "Dude."</p><p>Chase started and stared, homicidal fantasies forgotten. "Did you just call me 'dude'?"</p><p>"Sometimes it's necessary," Foreman said, and shook his head again.</p><p>Chase barely resisted the urge to fling the mug after his retreating back.</p><p>When he looked back again, House was staring at him. Chase narrowed his eyes, and House made a shooing motion with his hand.</p><p>Take care of him, my ass, Chase mouthed, and followed Foreman out into the hallway.</p><p>The odds were pretty good House was a better lip-reader than he was.</p><p> </p><p>"So," Foreman began, and Chase glanced at his watch and stopped an imaginary timer. One hour, twelve minutes.</p><p>"Fuck off," he said, turning back to his titration, just as the door opened and Cameron walked in.</p><p>She stopped, sweeping them both with a curious look. "I miss something?"</p><p>"No," they said in unison.</p><p>Chase glared.</p><p>Foreman just smiled.</p><p> </p><p>July</p><p>He was getting used to it now, pumping himself up and down, doing all the work while House laid back like an emperor surveying his kingdom. After the past week, he was out of practice, and his muscles burned like it was the first time; but Chase'd always had strong thighs, muscles built from skiing and snowboarding, though he didn't get to do either as much as he'd like, and the endorphins from the exertion produced much the same high.</p><p>Skiing down Mount House. He snorted, and would have laughed as well, except House grabbed his hips and moved them just so, and the laughter became a gasp.</p><p>It wasn't all they did-- sometimes he sucked House, sometimes House jerked him off, and once they attempted a sixty-nine, with fairly disastrous results-- but it was often enough that Chase was starting to think of it as the usual. Like it was nothing more significant than a sandwich order.</p><p>The usual, and it was getting harder and harder to go without.</p><p>He'd made it a week this time before placing yet another drunken phone call; a week in which he'd scrubbed bloody vomit off the examining room floor (not enough nurses, House claimed, and the ones they had were too busy), and had been made to tell an overprotective father that his precious, coddled daughter had syphilis ("Hey, maybe you'll get slapped again-- that was fun"). Round two, lost again.</p><p>He'd been furious, at the time. Now he was hard put to remember why.</p><p>The hard part probably had a lot to do with it.</p><p>"One-- of these days," House grunted, his hips thrusting up awkwardly to meet Chase's, "you're gonna-- stop breaking up-- with me."</p><p>This time Chase did laugh, a little more breathlessly than he'd intended. "One of these days--" his voice rose sharply on the last word, and he dug his fingernails into House's hips to steady himself-- "you're gonna buy me flowers and-- and serenade me from the roof-- oh God, don't do that--"</p><p>House took his hand away, and Chase groaned in frustration.</p><p>"Your mouth says no," House said, "your love stick says yes."</p><p>Chase nearly choked. "Love stick?"</p><p>"Man-meat? Pearl pole? Love truncheon? Purple-helmeted warrior?" He'd replaced his hand; each euphemism was accompanied by a fierce, near-vicious stroke. It was almost enough to dull the pain of the litany.</p><p>Almost.</p><p>Chase's thighs quivered, gave out, and he found himself fully seated and gasping from it. "Are you trying to kill me?" he demanded, once he finally caught his breath.</p><p>"Porksicle," House decided.</p><p>Chase slumped over, burying his face in House's stomach. "Oh God."</p><p>House squirmed underneath him. "Quit it."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"Because I asked really nicely?"</p><p>Chase snorted again.</p><p>"Hey," House protested, and Chase felt a wicked grin curving his lips.</p><p>"You're ticklish, aren't you?"</p><p>"No," House said. "Get up, you jackass."</p><p>In response, Chase licked a warm line from House's navel, up to the bottom of his ribcage. Muscles jumped beneath his tongue.</p><p>"Oh, you are so fired," House panted, and shoved him off. His dick slipped out of Chase with a disconcerting squelch. In the next instant, he was crouched over Chase, only a faint tightness around his eyes suggesting the possibility of pain.</p><p>Chase started to sit up. "Hey, you shouldn't--"</p><p>"Shut up," House said, and pushed him back down. "I just fired you."</p><p>"That's a novel theory of sexual harassment," Chase said, trying to glance down at House's leg like a nervous parent; he felt certain the sentiment wouldn't be appreciated. "Fire me when I do sleep with you."</p><p>House's eyes narrowed, and his voice took on a sharper edge. "I find your euphemism amusing, and your accusation problematic."</p><p>"You're amused by my euphemism? I think my brain is still broken."</p><p>House's voice dropped to a silky purr. "That really wasn't the point there."</p><p>"Forget it." More riddles, and he was not in the mood. Chase pushed at House's shoulder, urging him over onto his back again.</p><p>House refused to be urged. "Oh no you don't. If I'm harassing you--" and he pronounced it the way Chase did, hair-asing, in a drawn-out, mocking drawl-- "I'm gonna do it right."</p><p>Chase tried to squirm backwards, and House sat on his thighs, effectively trapping him. "What are you-- look, we already tried--"</p><p>"I'd probably remember if we did."</p><p>Which, okay, point taken; they hadn't tried it, for the simple reason that it was such a patently stupid idea in the first place. "Listen, all manly pride aside--"</p><p>"Now where would we be without manly pride?"</p><p>"I'm sure you're very strong and virile--"</p><p>"I should hope so, by now."</p><p>"--but," Chase pressed on, grabbing the hands that were reaching for his hips, "I'd prefer not to have to drag you into the emergency room at this point in the evening."</p><p>"No need, I've got an intensivist on hand for just such an occasion. Word is he's not half-bad. Getting a little too big for his britches lately, but-- hey!"</p><p>The last was prompted as Chase, resorting to the last weapon in his arsenal-- indignation and appeals to reason having failed miserably-- reached up and brushed his fingers over House's stomach. He felt smug for a second, and then his wrists were caught and pinned, and it was back to annoyance and vague dismay.</p><p>"You're being an idiot," Chase said through gritted teeth, as House shifted his weight off to the side and pushed Chase's knees up toward his chest.</p><p>"Which has always been my prerogative. What are you looking at?"</p><p>Chase propped himself up on his elbows, watching as House fluffed and arranged pillows, focusing on the problem with the same single-minded focus he used on patients, and a similar total disregard for their concerns. "Just trying to figure how exactly you plan to pull this off."</p><p>"Watch and learn," House said, with a wolfish grin. Chase's legs had fallen back down, splayed on either side of him, and House slid deft hands underneath Chase's thighs, expression fading into a frown. "I thought I took care of these already."</p><p>"Yes, well, I don't actually bend that way."</p><p>House raised an eyebrow.</p><p>"Often," Chase amended.</p><p>The second eyebrow shot up to join the first. "So just sometimes, then."</p><p>"No! That's not what I--" And then his legs were pushed up again, more firmly this time, and arranged carefully over House's shoulders, and he lost his balance and fell back with a grunt as the remaining air was pushed out of his lungs.</p><p>"You were saying?"</p><p>Chase folded his hands behind his head and raised an eyebrow of his own, ignoring the twinge of stretched muscles. "Stalling, are you?"</p><p>"Hardly," House said smugly. He was still seated; as Chase watched with a growing sense of foreboding, he arranged his right leg in front of him so it ran alongside the length of Chase's body, then rose carefully onto his left knee. Chase's legs rose with him, and he found himself pressed almost double, House looming over him with an unmistakable smirk on his face. "And you doubted me."</p><p>"Remind me," Chase gasped, his hands slipping out from beneath his head and dropping down by his sides to clutch at the sheets, "what are you trying to prove, again?"</p><p>"It sounds so petty when you put it like that."</p><p>"Shoe fits," Chase muttered. He had to admire the man's ingenuity, if nothing else. The position was almost like a runner's crouch, only with his weight on the rear leg instead of the front. Certainly it would reduce the strain. And if House had no intention of moving any time soon, he'd consider the problem solved.</p><p>Of course, if House had no intention of moving, Chase was pretty sure that would be considered grounds for justifiable homicide. Despite everything, he was still hard, and his dick was sorely protesting the interruption. And from where he was sitting-- well, okay, lying-- House's own erection hadn't flagged either. And since Chase highly doubted he got off on the pain....</p><p>He narrowed his eyes. "How many pills did you take?"</p><p>In response, House sank back into him, balls-deep with one long, forceful roll of his hips.</p><p>"Enough," Chase heard him say, through the shock of penetration, still not quite used to it even after weeks of practice.</p><p>"Clearly," Chase choked out, when he could speak again.</p><p>It was awkward and clumsy, and Chase's legs kept slipping, until he crossed one ankle over the other and dug his heels into House's back. House's cock teased his prostate with glancing strokes, never quite enough to push him over the edge, and he reached down to help things along. House glanced down at his hand, then redoubled his efforts; his own hands were busy supporting his weight.</p><p>The change in position was more disorienting than he'd expected. The loss of power was technically negligible; he could still push House off if he wanted, if he wasn't worried about hurting the man. In practice, however, he wasn't willing to risk it. And while the pace was tortuously slow, neither did he want to risk hurrying things along. At least before, he'd been able to set his own speed. Now he was fully at House's mercy, constrained by his disinclination to be the cause of his employer's sex-related injury.</p><p>Now there's a good one for the CV.</p><p>Still, it wasn't entirely unpleasant, and when Chase finally came, House was still thrusting doggedly away. The strain was starting to show on his face, and Chase bit back the concern that threatened to trip off his tongue. If House was trying to prove something, that was his own damn business.</p><p>And when House did orgasm, then collapsed, panting and sweaty and smug, Chase had no doubt the point had been made. But damned if he knew what it was supposed to be.</p><p> </p><p>Chase stood over the bed the next morning, hands on his naked hips, not bothering to hide the disapproval on his face. Not like House would see it anyway.</p><p>"How's the leg?" he asked sarcastically.</p><p>House pulled the comforter up further over his head. Muffled by the fabric, his voice lost none of its venom. "Shut up and get me some Vicodin."</p><p> </p><p>September</p><p>One week, two days; it was the longest Chase had held out since this whole ridiculous farce began. House was a bad habit, an addiction. No matter how many times he tried to quit, it never quite took.</p><p>Work that day had followed a now-familiar pattern. House was chilly and distant; Foreman knew more than he should; and Cameron just watched them all, looking confused. Whenever he passed Wilson in the hallway, Wilson gave him knowing looks but kept his mouth shut. Chase ignored them all as best he could, kept his head down, and tried to do his job.</p><p>The hollow sting of betrayal in his gut was a new and exciting twist. Two days since House's revelation about his father, and he still hadn't called. He saw the time slipping away now, like some fucking movie cliché of pages ripped off a calendar, and with each metaphorical tear the phone seemed farther and farther out of reach; Australia no longer on the other side of the globe, but on another planet altogether, in a different galaxy even. His father was dying, and he wasn't close enough to make it feel real. If House hadn't... he never would have known until the funeral.</p><p>It was enough to keep him away that extra day. And probably another, and another. Chase envisioned the future stretching in front of him, thin and cold and empty and utterly professional, and wondered dully if he was finally cured.</p><p>And every time he thought about going back, every night he drank too much and stared at the phone and tried to decide which call he wanted to make the least, newly-rediscovered pride stilled his hand. He hadn't been the one to walk out last time, not until House had told him to. It was House's turn to come crawling back.</p><p>Something no amount of single-malt could help him envision, even disregarding the obvious physical limitations.</p><p>Still, when his buzzer rang that night-- two days after the dropped bomb, one day after matching his best time in the Dignity, And How To Pretend You Still Have It footrace-- he was at the intercom in an instant, flattening a shaking palm over the door button to let the visitor through. And if he couldn't think who else might be paying him an impromptu nighttime visit, that certainly wasn't something he was going to admit to House.</p><p>He wasn't going to admit anything to House, because two minutes later-- Hey, but who's counting-- it wasn't House who knocked on his door.</p><p>Chase stared. "You've got to be kidding me."</p><p>"Come on, man," Foreman said. "Let me in."</p><p>"Can you think of a particularly compelling reason why I should?"</p><p>Foreman just raised his eyebrows. "Can you think of a non-pathetic reason why you shouldn't?"</p><p>Had him there.</p><p>Chase closed the door and contemplated sliding the deadbolt home, turning off all the lights and crawling into bed and leaving Foreman standing in the hallway. Then he closed his eyes briefly, rested his forehead on the door, and undid the chain.</p><p>Foreman brushed past him into the apartment, looking around much like-- Chase's stomach clenched-- much like House had done. "Nice place," he said finally.</p><p>Chase closed the door and leaned against it, letting his head fall back against the cool wood. "You're surprised?"</p><p>"Hey, money doesn't always mean taste."</p><p>"I suppose you'd know."</p><p>Foreman's lips thinned into an angry line, but all he said was, "Here," and held out the wine bottle he'd been holding. Chase had spotted it instantly; it was one of the reasons he'd decided to let the man inside in the first place.</p><p>Chase took the bottle wordlessly and tried not to let his lip curl. A merlot, expensive and boring, just like Foreman's car. Expensive and boring and didn't tell him a damn thing about the man standing in his apartment.</p><p>The man who knew way too much about his personal life for comfort.</p><p>Chase let his hand fall to his side, let the bottle swing loosely between two fingers. "What do you want, Foreman?"</p><p>Foreman blinked, and managed to look almost entirely guileless. "Who says I want something?"</p><p>"You have that look," Chase pointed out. "And you're plying me with booze."</p><p>"Maybe I just thought you'd want some company."</p><p>"Maybe you were wrong. If that's all, you can go home now."</p><p>Foreman gave him a narrow look. "Damn. You're even starting to sound like him."</p><p>"Oh, look who's fucking talking." The words tasted dry and too familiar in his mouth, and it took him a moment to realize why; when he did, he suppressed a shudder. House's words, right down to the intonation. The profanity, at least, was all his.</p><p>Way to prove his fucking point.</p><p>Even his mental voice was getting filthier. House inspired employees and fuck-buddies alike to ever greater heights of obscenity.</p><p>Foreman looked briefly discomfited, as he always did when confronted with his resemblance to a man he barely tolerated at best. He'd stopped wearing the sneakers almost immediately.</p><p>Then he asked, in a low voice, "You're not still... are you?"</p><p>"Aren't you gone yet?" Chase snapped.</p><p>"Not with you blocking the door, I'm not."</p><p>Chase made a show of stepping aside and flinging open the door. Foreman didn't so much as twitch.</p><p>"That was a suggestion," Chase said. "In case you couldn't tell."</p><p>Foreman gave him a long, considering look, then shook his head. "Man, if I had to place bets, you or Cameron--"</p><p>"This is your idea of male bonding?" Chase shoved the door farther open. "Get the fuck out."</p><p>"Hey, I'm just saying. I had to choose, you wouldn't even be on the list."</p><p>"And if I were trying to get you in bed, that'd actually be a problem for me." Harder to get out than he'd expected; his tongue tripped over the words, stuttering and uncertain. Two days since he had wanted it, Foreman in his bed and in his mouth, with a fierceness that left him aching; funny how it could have disappeared so suddenly and completely. The only thing he wanted to do with Foreman right now involved a very tall flight of stairs, and a very hard concrete floor at the bottom.</p><p>Foreman dropped his gaze to the forgotten wine bottle, seemingly unperturbed. "You gonna open that or what?"</p><p>Chase glanced down as well, and felt his resolve weakening. Wine was wine, after all.</p><p>He made a last-ditch effort. "You going to be polite and actually leave when I ask you to?"</p><p>"Not without that bottle, no."</p><p>Figured. This time, Chase didn't bother to hide his sneer.</p><p>"Come on, then," he said, slamming the door shut, and stalked over to the sofa. Foreman followed, and Chase forestalled him with an accusing index finger. "You say anything about anyone's feelings, and I am leaving."</p><p>"It's your apartment," Foreman pointed out, sinking down gingerly beside him.</p><p>"So we'll fucking trade. Don't get complacent."</p><p>They watched baseball, which made him think of House, and bored him enough that he couldn't stop thinking once he started. They passed the wine bottle back and forth between them, not even bothering with glasses, and it seemed oddly fitting.</p><p>Sometime during the fourth-- whatever; period, inning, down-- Chase felt Foreman's eyes on him, and shifted irritably under the regard. "What's your problem?"</p><p>"Not nearly as interesting as yours."</p><p>"Which would be a snappy comeback, if that's what I'd actually asked."</p><p>Foreman propped his chin on his hand, his elbow on his thigh. "Just trying to remember all the times you mocked Cameron for her crush."</p><p>Chase shot to his feet, the bottle hitting the coffee table harder than he'd intended. "I said--"</p><p>Foreman raised his hands. "Hey, I'm not talking about anybody's feelings." He paused. "Except maybe Cameron's."</p><p>"She doesn't count?" The taste of ashes was back, sticking to his tongue and the back of his throat.</p><p>"Obviously not to you."</p><p>Chase laughed, incredulous; he couldn't help it. "What, are you telling me she had dibs?"</p><p>"I'm telling you," Foreman said, with an exaggerated evenness to his voice, "that of all the ways your little affair is a really bad idea, that one's just the icing on the cake."</p><p>Chase started to shake, and couldn't quite tell if it was terror or rage, or some unholy combination of the two. "Get out," he said softly. "Get up, and get out."</p><p>Foreman listened for once, to the first part at least; he rose slowly, eyes narrowed to slits. "So what's the verdict?" he asked coldly. "Does he have sex, or does he make love?"</p><p>"You'll never know," Chase said. It was all he could think of. His voice sounded dead to his own ears.</p><p>"What are you getting out of this, Chase?"</p><p>"Were," Chase said, "past tense," and pointed at the door.</p><p>He slammed it after Foreman's retreating back, and threw the lock as hard as he could.</p><p> </p><p>August</p><p>In the weeks that followed, Chase started, slowly but surely, to learn. He stopped panicking every time he passed Wilson or Stacey in the hallway; over two months now, if they hadn't figured anything out yet, he was probably safe. He kept his mouth shut, he went along with House, and the whole thing was starting to seem so depressingly ordinary, he almost couldn't tell that anything had changed at all.</p><p>Even the others seemed back to normal. Foreman had stopped shooting him so many suspicious looks, and Cameron started to lose the moony stares. Whatever her thing with House, she seemed to have worked it out in her own head to satisfaction.</p><p>Unless they'd worked it out together, the two of them. Chase didn't like the way his gut twisted at the thought. He wasn't supposed to care.</p><p>He kept his mouth shut, and that, it seemed, was the point House had been trying to make, because he never bothered to repeat his little death-, or rather leg-defying stunt. Or else he'd simply learned his lesson, but if there was one thing Chase knew for sure about House, it was that the man wouldn't recognize a lesson if it walked up and slapped him in the face. Either way, the fact remained that Chase had been cowed into submission, and it chafed; but he suffered in silence, and he was getting good at it.</p><p>Chase, unlike House, took his lessons to heart. He'd always been a quick study. So House didn't want him calling a spade a spade. If that was what it took....</p><p>For what? He didn't even know anymore. He was no longer under imminent threat of being sacked; hadn't been, if he considered it honestly, since the meningitis epidemic and the Mary Carroll case. He'd taken his punishment like a good boy, and that was enough for House.</p><p>But he didn't consider things honestly, not very often. The thought that it had all been for nothing, everything that happened since that first fucked-up night, was capable of keeping him awake and agitated long into the night.</p><p>It couldn't last; he was painfully aware of that fact. He felt like he was walking on a tightrope, knowing the end was coming but unable to see it in the distance-- and worse, he was the only one who knew. House seemed perfectly content to continue things the way they were. Of course he was. He was getting what he wanted out of it.</p><p>So Chase made nice, and fucked himself on House's cock four nights a week, and held his breath and waited for the other shoe to drop, and the month passed in a gut-clenching, nerve-wracking blur.</p><p>It was a hell of his own making. And the worst thing was, it wasn't even all that bad. There were compensations, at least.</p><p>Things he hadn't known about himself, hadn't ever wanted to know, were bubbling unchecked to the surface. The realization that his compulsion to suck cock hadn't just been a one-off, belated adolescent rebellion. Awareness of his need for House's approval, and how fucking gratifying it was when it came-- couldn't chalk that all up to professional pride, not anymore. It helped that he no longer had any pride to speak of.</p><p>Helped in a relative sense, anyway. He was satisfied in a way he hadn't been for a long, long time, and just self-aware enough to realize how very fucked that made him.</p><p>He had fantasies, sometimes, of doing something completely unprecedented, something insane and dangerous and very much not the usual. Like grabbing House in the middle of the hospital and dragging him into a supply closet, or an empty exam room, where Chase would kiss him senseless; kisses weren't usual, but they weren't discouraged either. And then he'd drop to his knees and undo House's trousers--</p><p>--and that was where the fantasy usually ended, with Cuddy walking in and firing them both without even batting an eye. Or, alternately, taking a picture with the camera she would magically have in hand.</p><p>Even his fantasies were paranoid.</p><p>So he never tried it, but that didn't stop House from giving him some serious eye-fucks when the others weren't looking-- never more than a few seconds, never long enough to get caught, but more than long enough for Chase to spring instantly erect in his slacks. Way more than long enough. Physiological conditioning had done its vicious work well.</p><p>Sadistic bastard.</p><p>"You're killing me here," he hissed once, out of the side of his mouth, falling into step next to House in the hallway, just close enough to brush lightly against him.</p><p>"Excellent," House said blandly, staring straight ahead as he always did during hallway conversations, trusting in the sheer force of gravity to keep his satellites following him-- or, alternately, not caring if they left orbit. "My nefarious plan is working splendidly. You'll die of a persistent hard-on, the rest of us will split your salary, and everyone goes home happy. Except you; you'll just go into the ground happy."</p><p>And what else did he expect? "So glad to see you've put some thought into this."</p><p>"I've put some thought into everything," House said.</p><p>"Really."</p><p>"Well," House amended, "almost everything." He shot a sidelong glance at Chase, too quick to read whatever emotion might be lurking there, then raised his voice. "Don't worry, Dr. Chase, I'm sure you're old enough to go pee-pee by yourself. You won't get lost on the way, will you?"</p><p>Chase opened his mouth, then shut it again, at a loss. A passing surgeon shot him a strange look and shook her head.</p><p>"Later," House said when she was gone, in a low, promising voice that sent ripples down his spine.</p><p>And that was a definite pinch on his ass.</p><p>He hadn't been heading for the men's room before, but all of a sudden, the detour seemed like a good idea.</p><p>Chase lingered in one of the stalls for a good five minutes, on the off chance that the suggestion had been some kind of code, and House intended to join him in the one place it had already been established that Cuddy wouldn't find them. When no one came in except Robertson from radiology, and he didn't think House was that sadistic, Chase resigned himself to disappointment and jerked off, fast and rough and graceless, into the toilet.</p><p>It took the edge off, but it didn't much help.</p><p> </p><p>In the end, Chase tried not to think about it too much. He gritted his teeth and played by the rules, and lost himself in his work as much as he could. And when he started to catch House shooting him different looks-- not his usual kind, the ones that curled Chase's toes when no one else was watching, that made his face burn and his dick leap to attention; but narrow, almost disapproving looks, lip curled and eyes dark with something he couldn't quite put a name to, and didn't think he wanted to-- he knew that the end of the rope had suddenly come into sharp focus.</p><p>The question remained whether House saw it now as well.</p><p> </p><p>September</p><p>In retrospect, he'd expected himself to snap much sooner than he did. He wasn't sure that was a compliment to his emotional fortitude, or a sad statement on his ability to just lie down and take the abuse.</p><p>They were in his apartment, and had worked their way down to the really good scotch, the bottle he kept in the hall closet. Chase didn't remember what they'd been talking about. He wished he did, because he was pretty sure it was the first time he'd seen House genuinely laugh.</p><p>He opened his mouth, heard the bitter words come out, and realized he wouldn't have stopped them even if he could.</p><p>"This is nice," he said. "It's like you almost enjoy my company. We should do this every night."</p><p>House snapped his mouth shut in mid-laugh; the curve that lingered on his lips was anything but friendly. "How sweet-- oh, but that's sarcasm, isn't it? Climb down off your cross there, Chase, you'll need two hands to manage the nails."</p><p>Chase downed the rest of his glass in a single gulp, feeling the warmth knock loose something in his chest that had been waiting far too long to get out. "I'm sure you'd be willing to lend a hand."</p><p>"Sorry. Religious iconography, not my thing."</p><p>"Then what is your thing?" He refilled his glass, not much caring about the narrow-eyed glare that followed his every movement. He felt light-headed, ridiculously liberated somehow. "What's your stake in this, anyway? Or is it just the sex? If Cuddy knew that was all it took to keep you off her back--"</p><p>"Tried that already," House said dismissively, and okay, Chase was just not going to think about that. "You're really paranoid, you know that? Just take it for what it is, would you?"</p><p>And what is that, exactly? He didn't bother asking; he knew what answer he'd get.</p><p>"I can't," he said instead, with what he felt was admirable calm. "Not this. Not with you."</p><p>House's eyes widened. "Are you dumping me again?"</p><p>He sounded so bewildered, it was almost funny. Almost but not quite. Chase stared into his glass, considering the question.</p><p>"No," he said finally.</p><p>"Well, why the hell not?"</p><p>"Because it never takes." He set the glass down and stood. "Come on," he said, and walked into the bedroom without a backward glance.</p><p>For a moment, he wasn't sure House was going to follow. When he did, Chase couldn't tell if the hollow feeling in his stomach was relief or dismay.</p><p>Didn't matter. It was up to House now.</p><p>If he was being brutally honest-- which, as a general rule, he tended not to be-- he'd have to admit that it had always been up to House.</p><p> </p><p>House left that night without uttering another word, which had Chase worried; a silent House had to be a sign of the coming Apocalypse. As it turned out, he wasn't so far off the mark.</p><p>The next morning, a prisoner was brought in from death row, and House sent Chase to the prison to investigate his cell.</p><p>It was as eloquent a fuck you as he'd ever received.</p>
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